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‘'\i 




BY LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY. 


HISTORICAL TALES. 

LOVEDAY’S HISTORY. A Story of Many Changes. 

lamo. Cloth $ 1 . 5 ° 

THE FOSTER-SISTERS; or, Lucy Corbet’s Chron- 
icle. i2mo. Cloth ' . . 1.50 

WINIFRED; or, After Many Days. i2mo Cloth . 1.25 

LADY BETTY’S GOVERNESS; or. The Corbet 

Chronicles. 12010. Cloth 1.25 

LADY ROSAMOND’S BOOK. Being a second part of 

the Stanton-Corbet Chronicles. 12010. Cloth , . .1.25 

THE CHEVALIER’S DAUGHTER. Being one of the 

Stanton-Corbet Chronicles. 12010. Cloth .... 1.50 


OTHER STORY-BOOKS. 

OLDHAM ; or. Beside all Waters. 12010. Cloth . 1.50 
MILLY; or, The Hidden Cross. 12010. Cloth . . 1.00 

CHRISTMAS AT CEDAR HILL. A Holiday Story- 

Book. i6mo. Cloth i.oo 

THE CHILD’S TREASURE OF STORIES. 16010. 

Cloth . .90 

THE SCHOOL-GIRL’S TREASURY; or. Stories 

for Thoughtful Girls. 16010. Cloth .... .90 


*** Copies 7nailed, postpaid, on receipt of price. 


THOMAS WHITTAKER, 

2 and 3 liible Ilonse, Netv York, 








“ Selina came to where the path made a sudden turn. . . . She started 
violently, for she stood face to face with a man, and that man was Mr. 
Pyncheon himself.” — p. 326. 


OLDHAM 


OR 


BESIDE ALL WATERS 


AUTHOR OF 


BY 


LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY 


“LOVEDAY’S history,” “lady BETTY’S GOVERNESS,” 
“IRISH AMY,” ETC. 



-C 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS WHITTAKER 

2 AND 3 BIBLE HOUSE 

1886 

'v 


<( 9 - 


Copyright, 1885, 

By THOMAS WHITTAKER. 

I 


ELECTROTYPKD AND PRINTED 
BY RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY, 
BOSTON. 


THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
TO MY BIBLE CLASS. 



PREFACE. 


I THINK this book tells its own story, such as it is. 
It is simply a tale of quiet country life in a New- 
England parish, with some of its oddities and advan- 
tages, and a little of the tragedy which is found 
everywhere. It is not meant specially either for 
old or young, though I hope both classes may find 
entertainment and profit in it. 

One word as to the Bible-class service. I believe 
such neighborhood meetings would be found of the 
utmost advantage both in city and country parishes. 
In the city especially may always be found a large 
class of women who have been brought up to attend 
church regularly, but have fallen out of the habit, 
at first, perhaps, kept at home by the cares of young 
children, and afterward from indifference. Such 
persons may often be induced to attend a service 
in a neighbor’s house or some such place, of an 
evening, when they would not go to church. My 
idea of such services would be, to make them “ Bible- 
readings,” in which all should be invited to take 
part. I do believe that a great deal of good might 
be done in this way. 

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY. 


5 



CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

The Red Schoolhouse ii 

CHAPTER II. 

Neighborhood News 25 

CHAPTER III. 

Kit at Home 38 

CHAPTER IV. 

Strangers • • 57 

CHAPTER V. 

The Meeting 72 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Enemy 83 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Springing Grain . 103 


7 


8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PAGE 

The Snakes ii6 

CHAPTER IX. 

Two Tea-Parties 140 

CHAPTER X. 

The Birds of the Air 167 

CHAPTER XL 

New Projects 199 

CHAPTER XII. 

Harmony and Discord 225 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Kit’s Victory 240 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Miss Van Zandt 255 

CHAPTER XV. 

More Changes 268 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Tea-Party 280 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Mrs. Orme 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Trouble at Home ,04 


CONTENTS. 


9 




CHAPTER XIX. 

PAGE 

Oldham Affairs 315 

CHAPTER XX. 

Warning 330 

CHAPTER XXL 

The Net Closed 345 

CHAPTER XXII. 


The End 


357 


OLDHAM; OR, Beside All Waters. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE. 

It was not in the least like the red schoolhouses 
one may see* every day in the city. They are great 
piles of brick, usually all the uglier for the attempts 
at ornament bestowed upon them. They have any 
number of rooms for any number of grades, with A 
classes and B classes, and all the other machinery 
for grinding out scholars by the hundred, all done to 
one pattern. My red schoolhouse was more like the 
little “custom mill,” built by the side of a dashing, 
flashing mill-stream, with trees growing about it, 
and a row of sheds where stand steady, sober old 
horses, patiently waiting while their owners sit in- 
side, or about the mill-door, discussing politics and 
neighborhood news, and waiting in their turn for 
their separate “ grists ” of sweet-smelling meal and 
flour. There was just such a mill not far from the 
red schoolhouse ; and the hum of the machinery could 


12 


OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


be heard in the schoolroom when the boys and girls 
were particularly quiet, as was the case on the 
special occasion when my story begins. 

There had been a talk two or three times, in 
school-meeting, of re-furnishing the schoolhoiise on 
modern principles ; but it had never been carried out. 
A long desk ran around two sides of the room, with 
a bench before it, where the elder scholars sat ; in 
front of this bench was another, mostly used for 
recitations ; and before all, a still lower seat for the 
little ones who were just learning their letters. The 
rest of the furniture consisted of the teacher’s desk 
and chair, standing on a platform by themselves ; a 
good serviceable blackboard, a little the worse for 
wear ; and a map of the world, and another of the . 
United States, which was so many States behind 
the times that it must needs be an old inhabitant. 

There were not more than twenty scholars present 
that June afternoon ; and those were mostly girls or 
very little boys, for the big boys of the district were 
busy with another branch of their education, — help- 
ing their fathers on the farm. All the children were 
seated with their faces toward the teacher, and the 
room was so still that the hum of the mill sounded 
like the drone of a big bumble-bee. Miss Arm- 
strong was standing on the platform, her hand rest- 
ing upon a book which she had apparently just laid 
down. She could not be called a very pretty woman, 
and yet there was that in her face and manner 
which made one look at her again. She had a cer- 
tain air of peace and cheerfulness overlying steadi- 
ness and resolution, — what you would call a face to 





“ All the children joined in the repetition of the Lord’s Prayer with one 
exception.” — p. 13. 




THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE. 


13 


be trusted. “ She looks as if she had come through 
the wars, and beat,'' said Patience Fletcher, who, 
poor thing, had been beaten many times in her war- 
fare. 

“Now, let me hear you say that verse all to- 
gether,” said Miss Armstrong; “and then we will 
join in repeating the Lord’s Prayer. I hope I shall 
hear every voice. Stand up, if you please.” 

Every voice was heard as the children repeated, in 
tones that were reverent from feeling, “ Like as a 
father pitieth his own children, so the Lord pitieth 
them that fear him.” All the children joined in the 
repetition of the Lord’s Prayer, with one exception. 
A thin, dark little girl, with black, crispy hair, stood 
looking down at her closely clasped hands with a 
curious movement about her lips. You would say 
she had much ado not to burst out crying. As the 
school was dismissed, and this little girl made her 
courtesy at the door (for this school was so far behind 
the times that “ manners ” were still taught therein), 
she suddenly raised her eyes, and looked her teacher 
in the face. Those eyes of Kit’s were always a kind 
of surprise. They were dark violet-blue, with black 
level brows, and very long black lashes, — Irish blue 
eyes, — and had an extraordinary brilliancy about 
them, like precious stones or sunlit water. They 
now flashed upon Miss Armstrong with a look of 
love and thankfulness which went to the teacher’s 
heart. 

She has taken in something, at any rate,” thought 
Miss Armstrong. “ I must talk more with her. I 
wonder why she did not join in the prayer.” 


14 OLDHAM', OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Somebody else wondered also ; for, the moment 
she was outside the door, Kit was met with the sharp 
question, — 

*‘Kit Mallory, why didn’t you say the Lord’s 
Prayer ? ” 

I don’t know it,” replied Kit, coloring up to the 
roots of her hair ; and then, after a moment, she 
added, as if with an effort, “ Our folks don’t believe 
in such things.” 

You wicked girl ! ” exclaimed the first speaker, 
a pretty well grown girl of sixteen, very neatly 
dressed. “You wicked child, not to believe in the 
Lord’s Prayer ! ” 

“ I didn’t say I didn’t believe in it : I said I didn’t 
know it,” replied Kit with some spirit. “ How can 
I believe in what I don’t know any thing about } ” 

“Well, you ought to know it, then,” said Selina. 
“You could have learned it if you had chosen, I 
know.” 

Kit did not seem disposed to pursue the subject. 
She walked a little way down the road, climbed the 
bars, and was soon ascending the rocky hill-pasture. 

“I declare, I don’t think that girl ought to be 
allowed to come to school,” said Selina. “ Phin 
Mallory is a regular infidel, and Melissa makes all 
kinds of fun of religion. Kit isn’t Phin’s niece, 
either, though she calls him uncle. She is only a 
little foundling taken out of the poorhouse ; Melissa 
told me so herself.” 

“ If she had been out of the orphan-asylum, it 
would have been all right, I suppose,” said a girl 
who had not yet spoken. It was now Selina’s turn 


THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE. 1 5 

to color. Her eyes flashed, and she turned abso- 
lutely white with anger. 

"‘For shame, Sarah!” said Faith Fletcher. 
isn’t Selina’s fault.” 

“Nor Kit’s either.” 

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself to take my part. 
Faith,” said Selina in a voice which trembled with 
anger. “ If Sarah ” — But here she stopped ; and, 
tying on her bonnet, she walked rapidly away in a 
direction opposite to that which Kit had taken. 

“You are too bad, Sarah,” said Faith. “Now she 
will go home and cry half the night.” 

“ Why am I too bad, any more than she ? ” asked 
Sarah. “ What did she say about Kit ? ” 

“ Two wrongs don’t make a right,” said Faith, very 
truly. 

“ And as to her crying, what is there to cry about .?” 
continued Sarah. “I think she might be thankful 
that she has a good home. Nobody would ever think 
of her being an adopted child if she did not put on 
such airs. I must say I do like to take her down.” 

“And how do you like it when somebody takes 
you down ? ” asked Faith. 

“ When it happens, I will tell you,” said Sarah 
lightly. “Where is that child } — Come, Gerty. You 
can’t stay to play to-night : I promised to come home 
early, and help mother.” 

“And I must go home and help sister,” said Faith, 
with a little sigh, as if the prospect were not the most 
alluring in the world. “ Come, children. Eddy, see 
how you have mussed up your clean apron ; and Eben 
has got his knees all green on the grass. What do 


1 6 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

you think sister will say ? Take hold of hands now, 
and walk along pretty.” 

The prospect of what sister would say seemed to 
have a very sobering effect on the little boy and girl, 
— twins of six years old. They at once gave up 
their play, and marched off in the most orderly man- 
ner. Faith followed them; and when Miss Arm- 
strong came out of the schoolhouse, and locked the 
door, there was not a human being in sight. She 
hesitated a moment, and then took the same road 
that Kit had followed. She had gone about a quar- 
ter of a mile, when she stopped, and looked about 
her with a puzzled expression. As she did so, a 
light figure sprang over the stone wall, and Kit 
Mallory stood beside her. / 

“Please, Miss Armstrong, ain’t you taking the 
wrong road ” said she as soon as she could gather 
breath enough to speak. “ Don’t you want to go to 
Mr. Weston’s to-night ? ” 

“To be sure I do, Kitty,” answered Miss Arm- 
strong. “I was just thinking I had made a mistake. 
Have I come very far out of my way ? ” 

“ Well, quite a piece,” answered Kit ; “ but, if you 
don’t mind going cross-lots, I could show you a 
shorter way than the road. Its real pretty, too, only 
it is kind of steep part of the way.” 

“ I don’t mind the steepness at all, and I love to 
go cross-lots,” answered Miss Armstrong. “I am 
not sure that I can climb that wall quite as easily as 
you did, however.” 

“There are bars only a little way from here,” said 
Kit: “I can take them down for you.” 


THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE. 


17 

' ‘‘ How did you come to my help so opportunely, 

I Kitty ? ” asked Miss Armstrong as they walked 
k along toward the bars. 

I '‘I saw you from the hill,” answered Kit as she 
took down the bars, and then carefully put them up 
again. “ There is a little hollow up yonder, where I 
always stop to rest. It is real pretty when you get 
there. Now we have to go up, you see; but it isn’t 
so steep very far.” 

Miss Armstrong not only saw, but felt, the steep- 
ness of the path, which taxed all her strength for a 
few minutes, for she was not used to mountain-climb- 
ing. Presently, however, they came to a kind of 
break or niche in the steep rocky ledge which 
I crowned the hill like a rampart. The grass in this 
^ hollow was short and fine, and beautifully green ; and 
\ lovely tufts of lady-fern and maiden-hair grew about 
I the rocks. A low, wide-spreading oak-tree stood at 
I the entrance of the nook ; and a bright, clear spring, 
! bursting to light from under the ledge, made quite a 
I deep pool, and then prattled cheerfully away down 
the mountain-side. The view from the spot was 
lovely enough to have pleased a more cultivated eye 
than Kit’s. The long valley, with the river and the 
road winding through it, was spread out like a map ; 
and the ‘‘folded hills” rose one behind the other, 
till the prospect was closed by the top of a great 
blue mountain. Almost at their feet lay the school- 
house, and Bassett’s mill with its flashing mill-dam. 
Miss Armstrong uttered an exclamation of delight. 

“ I’m glad you think it pretty,” said Kit. “ Please 
sit down and rest.” 


1 8 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

As she spoke she pointed out a flat rock as a 
desirable seat ; and then, disappearing for a little, she 
presently came back with one hand full of young 
wintergreens, and the other of the last year’s stems, 
each with its coral berry. 

‘‘ I can get you a drink if you like,” said she ; and, j 
searching in a hollow among the rocks, she brought j 
out a cracked teacup, which she filled at the spring- ^ 
head, and offered to Miss Armstrong. ( 

“ Thank you, my dear ; this is very refreshing,” ' 
said Miss Armstrong. ‘‘You have made me a nice j 
little treat. I do not wonder you like to stop here.” 

“I think it is pleasant,” said Kit: “you can see 
so far, and the colors are so nice. Folks say red , 
houses are ugly and old-fashioned, but somehow the 
red schoolhouse and mill seem just to fit in — I don’t 
know how to say what I mean.” 

“I understand you,” said Miss Armstrong. “They 
do just exactly fit in, as you say. You have an €ye 
for color, Kitty.” 

“I love colors, I know that,” said Kit; and then, 
her face darkening as if with an unpleasant recol- 
lection, “Melissa says I am a fool because I love 
flowers, and because I am always picking up stones 
and snail-shells. She threw away all my pretty 
stones that I got up on the mountain, but I’ll be 
even with her some day.” 

“You should not speak like that,” said Miss Arm- 
strong gently. “Don’t you know that it is wrong to 
wish for revenge ? ” 

“ Is it ? ” asked Kit. 

“ Yes, my dear. Do you never read the Bible ? ” 


THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE. 


19 


“I never saw only the outside of one,” answered 
Kit. “ Uncle Phin won’t have one in the house. 
He says all pious people are humbugs, and that it 
was religion that made aunt Martha crazy.” 

** Is your aunt crazy } ” asked Miss Armstrong. 

“Yes, ma’am. She isn’t raving crazy all the time; 
but she just sits still in her chair, and takes no 
notice of any thing. Sometimes she would not eat 
any thing for days together if Symantha or uncle 
‘ Phin did not coax her. They are real good to her, 
.but Melissa hasn’t a mite of patience with her.” 

1 “ And would you like to read the Bible, Kitty } ” 
“Yes, ma’am, if there are nice stories in it,” 
^answered Kit doubtfully. “I love stories.” 
t “And so do I,” said Miss Armstrong. “Yes, 
there are plenty of beautiful stories in the Bible. But 
i that is not the reason we love it : it is because the 
■ Bible is God’s word, — his letter or message to us, 
. to teach us about him. ‘ If you had a kind friend out 
I in California, and he should write you a letter saying 
® he had a delightful home all ready for you, and tell- 
, ing you what you must do in order to come to that 
^ home, you would think a great deal of that letter, 
wouldn’t you ? You would want to read it over and 
over, and learn all it had to tell you.” 

“I guess I would!” said Kit. with emphasis. “I 
would learn it off by heart, and think about it all the 
time.” 

“ Well, the Bible is very much such a letter to us. 
In it our Heavenly Father tells us about Himself, 
f and all He has done for us, and especially how He 
! sent His Son to take our nature upon Him, and die 


20 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

for us on the cross, and then to rise from the dead, 
and go into heaven to make ready a place for those 
who love Him.” 

Kit looked puzzled for a moment, and then her 
eyes lighted up. 

“I believe I read about Him in the 'Pilgrim’s 
Progress,’ ” said she. "Isn’t He the Lord that it tells 
about } ” 

"Yes,” answered Miss Armstrong. "So you have 
read the ' Pilgrim’s Progress ’ ? ” 

" Not all of it. I found an old, torn book of it up 
in the garret when we came here ; and it was a story, 
so I read it. Uncle Phin said it was all a heap of non- 
sense, like 'Bluebeard’ and 'Jack the Giant-Killer;’ 
but it always did seem to me more than that. So 
there really is such a person .^ ” 

Miss Armstrong looked at the child for a moment 
in amazement. With all her experience, she found it 
hard to realize that here, in the midst of a Christian 
community, was a child of twelve who could ask such 
a question. Kit did not understand the teacher’s 
glance, and took it for one of displeasure. 

"I don’t know any thing, hardly,” she said hum- 
bly, "only to read and write a little. Where we 
lived out West, there was hardly ever any church or 
meeting, and we only had school three or four 
months in the year. When we came here. Miss 
Celia Claxton called, and asked uncle Phin to let 
me come to Sunday school ; but he wouldn’t : and 
he talked so to her she has never been near us since. 
He says religion is all priestcraft and lies, and that 
nobody really believes in it.” 


THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE. 


21 


“ That is a great mistake, and one that I fear he 
will be very sorry for some day,” said Miss Arm- 
strong. “ Kitty, my dear child, before I go, I want 
to teach you a verse out of the Bible. Listen, and 
say it after me.” 

It was with a very serious face that Kit repeated 
after her friend, “ God so loved the world, that He 
gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believ- 
eth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting 
life.” One or two repetitions enabled her to say the 
verse perfectly. Then Miss Armstrong took out of 
her pocket a pretty little card, on which was printed 
that time-honored and always beautiful prayer which 
begins, — 

“Now I lay me down to sleep,” 

and also a verse for the morning. 

“I will give you this for your own,” said she. 

Learn these verses, and say them night and morn- 
ing. But, Kitty, if you want your Heavenly Father 
to give you any thing else, you can ask Him in your 
own words. He will always hear you if you ask for 
the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord.” 

“ And will He always give it to me } ” asked Kit 
eagerly. 

“Yes, if it is best for you to have it. But He 
knows better than we do what is good for us ; and, 
when we ask for what we ought not to have. He does 
not give it.” 

“I see,” said Kit thoughtfully. “Just as if a baby 
should want a sharp knife : its mother would not let 
it have the knife, if the baby cried ever so hard.” 


22 OLDHAM) OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“I see you understand me, my dear. Now we 
must walk on, or we shall be late. 

“ Have you always lived with your uncle, Kitty ? ” 
asked Miss Armstrong as they walked down the hill. 

No, ma’am. Melissa says uncle took me out of 
the poorhouse ; but I don’t believe it,” said Kit in 
a confidential tone. I remember a place that was 
not a bit like the poorhouse.” 

‘‘What was it like ? ” asked Miss Armstrong. 

Kit stopped for an instant, seeming to send her 
thoughts inward. “ It was a room with a bright 
carpet on the floor,” said she. “ I used to sit on the 
floor, and run my fingers over the figures. And there 
were plants, like Miss Claxton’s, and a big ^ Td. That 
is all I can remember when I am awake. Sometimes 
I dream about another place where I have been, but 
I can’t tell what it is like. And it doesn’t seem to 
me as if my name was Keturah, either.” 

“ Perhaps it was Catherine,” suggested Miss Arm- 
strong. 

“ I can’t tell,” said Kit, knitting her brows. “ It 
doesn’t seem as if that was it exactly. I asked 
Symantha one day ; but she hushed me up, and told 
me never to talk about it, because uncle Phin would 
be very angry if he knew. But I think about it a 
great deal,” concluded Kit with a kind of triumph 
in her tone. “They can’t keep me from think- 
ing.” 

“ Here is Mr. Weston now,” said Miss Armstrong 
as they came out of the pasture into the lane which 
led out to the road beside a great barn. 

“Well, I declare! I was just going to hitch up. 


THE RED SCHOOLHOUSE, 


23 


and go after you/’ said Mr. Weston. ‘‘You staid so 
long, I thought you must be lost.” 

“That is exactly what happened to me,” replied 
Miss Armstrong. “ I stupidly took the wrong turn 
coming out of the schoolhouse; and I don’t know 
where I should have been by this time if Kitty had 
not come to my rescue, and brought me over the hill. 
We should have been here long before, only that we 
sat down for a rest and a chat.” 

“ Did you put up the bars. Kit ? ” asked Mr. 
Weston. 

“Yes, sir, I always do when I take them down ; 
but I generally climb over,” answered Kit. “ I must 
be going, ’’j'-she added with an effort. “Symantha 
will want me.” 

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Weston. He went 
into the barn as he spoke, and came back with a 
basketful of June russet apples. 

“There ! you don’t see many such apples this time 
of year,” said he. 

“ Oh, thank you ! ” said Kit gratefully. “ Aunt 
Martha will eat an apple sometimes when she won’t 
touch any thing else.” 

“ That child has hard times, I am afraid,” said Mr. 
Weston, as Kit disappeared behind the barn. “But 
what has become of Selina ? ” 

“ I have not seen her at all,” replied Miss Arm- 
strong. “ I supposed she came directly home.” 

“ Here she is now. — Why, Selina ! how was it you 
did not wait for Miss Armstrong ? ” 

“ I forgot,” answered Selina, coloring ; “ and when 
I went back she was gone.” 


24 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** Your wits were wool-gathering, as usual, I guess,” 
said Mr. Weston. ‘‘ Only for Kit Mallory, Miss Arm- 
strong might have been halfway to Oldbury by this 
time. However, all’s well that ends well. Run into 
the house now, and help ma. Aunt Betsy Burr and 
Miss Claxton have just come in, and will stay to 
tea.” 

‘‘Just my luck, exactly,” said Selina to herself. 
“Somebody always gets my chance. I wanted to 
walk home with Miss Armstrong, and have a nice 
talk with her ; and now she will think me a perfect 
fool. It is all Sarah Leet’s fault, putting every thing 
out of my head. And now Aunt Betsy has come, and 
no one else will have a chance to put in a word. It 
is too bad ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 


NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS. 

‘‘Well/’ said Aunt Betsy as she finished butter- 
ng her biscuit, and began stirring up her tea, “ well, 
ind how do you like your school ? ” 

“Very well, so far,” answered Miss Armstrong; 
‘but these are early times, you know.” 

“Yes,. I know,” said Aunt Betsy, with a solemn 
; jhake of the head. “ New brooms sweep clean. 

! There was Malvina Spencer : she was going to do 
^reat things, but she almost broke up the school with 
1 ler nonsense. And there was that Miss O’Hara. 
iBut what could any one expect of herf added Aunt 
(Betsy with scornful emphasis. “Any one might 
•^have known how it would turn out.” 

“Yes, it was easy to see how it would turn out,” 
['laid Mr. Weston dryly. “ So long as so many were 
||)rejudiced against her beforehand, and determined 
I not to see any good in her, whatever she did, it was 
I no great wonder she failed.” 

“Why were they prejudiced against her.?” asked 
! Miss Armstrong. “ She had a pretty name in her 
favor, and a distinguished one, if that is any thing.” 

“Pretty, indeed!” said Aunt Betsy with a sniff. 

25 


26 OLDHAM ; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Why, her father was an Irishman, — just a regular 
Irishman, — who came here, and hired out to old 
Judge Davis down at the cross-roads. No, it was to! 
Abner Davis, up at the Corners, he went first, comei 
to think. When he had saved a little money, he 
bought the Mudge place, and mended up the old 
house so it was quite smart. But he was a regulari 
Irishman, for all that, and came from Ireland, for I 
heard him say so ; and he said he wasn’t ashamed ofi 
it, that’s more!” And Aunt Betsy looked triumph- 
antly at her host, as if to defy him to dispute her 
position. i 

“He was a Protestant, and very regular at church 
and communion ; and he was a clever man, too,”; 
said Mr. Weston, using the word “ clever ” in its 
New-England sense. “I remember how he used to 
do your chores for you. Aunt Betsy, when Uncle Jona^ 
than had the fever.” 

Aunt Betsy became suddenly busy with her tea. 

“But what had the fact of Miss O’Hara’s being 
Irish to do with her success in the school } ” asked 
Miss Armstrong. 

“ Well, you see, it rather set people against her,”' 
answered Miss Celia, a mild elderly lady, who had 
not yet spoken. “ We think a great deal of descent 
in these parts. Miss Armstrong ; and though I had 
nothing against Miss O’Hara myself, — indeed, I 
always thought her a very nice girl, — yet it did not 
seem as if she were a fit person to be set over chil- 
dren whose ancestors are buried all over Oldfield 
County, — the daughter of a new-come-over Irish- 
man.” 


NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS. 


27 


^ I ‘^According to that, our first teachers in this coun- 
iry must all have been very unsuitable persons,” said 
Mrs. Weston. ‘‘They were all new-come-over then, 
you know.” 

“To be sure,” said Miss Celia. “Really, cousin 
Abby, I don’t know that I ever looked upon it in 
that light. Certainly, we were all new-come-over 
once, — at least, our ancestors were, unless they were 
(Indians like old Abner Kettle.” 

; “Indians, indeed! I wonder at you, Celia Clax- 
:on,” said. Aunt Betsy indignantly. “You, whose 
.grandfathers and great-grandfathers are buried in 
:his very graveyard, to compare yourself to old 
Abner Kettle, whose daughter married a Feejee 
^{Islander or something like that I But, as to the 
ischool, I am glad Miss Armstrong likes it ; though 
These are new times, as I said. There are some 
dreadful wild girls in the district. There’s ” — 

“ Excuse me. Aunt Betsy ; but suppose we leave 
Miss Armstrong to find out for herself,” interposed Mr. 
Weston. “ What is this I hear about the stone house ? 
It seems we are to have new neighbors before long.” 

Aunt Betsy tossed her head, but the bait was too 
'Tempting not to be taken. 

“Why, yes, haven’t you heard? Of course you 
'know all about it, Celia. You have a right if any 
one has; for that place ought to belong to you and 
'Delia, if every one had their dues.” 

“ We have never laid the least claim to it,” said 
Miss Celia calmly. “ Richard Van Zandt was only 
a very distant relation, and we had no expectations 
whatever from him.” 


28 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

''X 

‘‘Not in that line, perhaps,” said Aunt Betsy, 
with an ill-natured laugh. Miss Celia’s fair old 
face flushed a little, but she took no notice of the 
remark. “Anyhow, Dick was your mother’s own 
second cousin, if you call that very distant. I 
don’t.” I 

“ It is not very near, at any rate,” said Miss Celia. ] 
“ We were always friendly with Richard, but we 
saw nothing of him for many years. His sister-in- 1 
law, Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt, was very kind to him, 
and he died at her house ; so it is no wonder he left 
his property to her. Delia and myself would hardly , 
have known what to do with such a house. It would ' 
have been a great trouble to us.” 

“You would have known what to do with the 
money, though.” 

“ We have enough,” said Miss Celia with dignity, 
“and that is as good as a feast.” 

“I don’t suppose there was much money in the 
case,” observed Mr. Weston. “Dick Van Zandt was 
never rich, and he was one who gave away with both ' 
hands whatever he had. I understand from Squire 
Davis that the place was left to Mrs. Van Zandt, who 
is very wealthy, on condition that it should be kept 
up, and that some member of the family should nowi 
and then spend a summer there.” I 

“ Yes ; the old lady and two or three of her nieces 
or grand-nieces are coming pretty soon, so Aunt 
Aggy told me,” said Mrs. Weston. “ I was up there 
yesterday, and found her sweeping and clearing up at 
a great rate. She took me through the house, and it 
was quite a wonder to see the order it was in. I would ' 


NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS. 29 

not have believed it had stood empty so long. Even 
the carpets looked as good as new.’* 

‘‘The house was handsomely furnished, to begin 
with. And was Aggy pleased with the prospect.?’* 
asked Miss Celia, much interested. 

“ Oh, yes ! She says she and Mrs. Van Zandt were 
girls together.” 

“ Mrs. Van Zandt’s father was a Butler, I know; but 
her mother was a Bogardus, and connected with all the 
Dutch folks over there in Rockvale,” said Aunt Betsy, 
who was very strong in the matter of genealogy. 

“ I have heard that Mrs. Van Zandt is a very nice 
lady,” observed Mrs. Weston. 

“ She is,’* said Miss Armstrong. “ I know her well. 
And I am glad she is coming here : she is a blessing 
wherever she goes.” 

“ Do tell ! ” exclaimed Aunt Betsy. “ Real liberal 
with her money, I expect.” 

“Yes, and better than that, — very kind and judi- 
cious with it” 

“ She won’t have very nice neighbors on one side, 
at any rate,” said Aunt Betsy. “ I shouldn’t like to 
live next to those Mallorys.” 

“ I don’t suppose they will trouble her very much, 
unless the poor woman gets one of her screaming 
fits,” said Miss Celia. “ Is it true that the little girl 
— Kitty, or whatever her name is — comes to school. 
Miss Armstrong.?” 

“ Yes, she was at school to-day ; and a very bright, 
interesting child she seems.” 

“Well, I don’t think it ought to be allowed,” said 
Aunt Betsy : “ her folks are regular infidels.” 


30 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


“ So she tells me/' 

“ She doesn’t know the Lord’s Prayer : she said so 
to-day,” observed Selina. She said her folks didn’t 
believe in such things.” 

** Just so. , Who knows what mischief the children 
may learn of her.?” 

“I do not think there is much danger in that 
direction,” said Miss Armstrong. “From what little 
talk I had with her to-day, I should say Kitty is 
rather a heathen than an unbeliever : she is as igno- 
rant of the Christian religion as any little South-sea 
Islander. But she seemed much interested in what I 
told her. It would be a great pity to deprive her of 
any chance, when she has so few. How does it- hap- 
pen that a family like the Mallorys should be found 
in such a place as this .? ” 

“Well, as to that, you know there are heathen 
everywhere,” replied Mr. Weston. “ Tom Mallory, 
the grandfather, was a great disciple and admirer 
of Tom Paine. Phin was always a wild fellow. But 
the women of the family were communicants of the 
Church, and old Tom never interfered with them ; he 
said religion was a safe plaything for women. And, to 
do him justice, he was really kind to his daughter-in- 
law and her boy, for Phin’s father was killed before he 
was born. Phin went away West, and nobody heard 
any thing about him till he came back and took pos- 
session of the place last fall, when the old man died. 
There was another grandson, who was a favorite with 
old Tom, and some say the farm was left to him ; but 
he has never turned up, and Phin says he died out 
West.” 


NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS. 


31 


Maybe Phin murdered him, to get the property,” 
said Aunt Betsy. ‘‘ Who knows } ” 

“ Nobody knows, and therefore we won’t suppose 
so,” said Mr. Weston somewhat sharply. ‘‘ He and 
Phin were always good friends. I always supposed 
Kit was his child, but Phin says she is not related 
to them at all. He says Symantha took a fancy to 
her, and adopted her.” 

Yes, that is very likely, that she would go adopt- 
ing a child,” said Aunt Betsy. “ Depend upon it, 
there’s more than that about it.” 

“Melissa says they took her out of the poor- 
house,” said Selina. 

“I wouldn’t have much to say to Melissa if I 
were you,” observed Mrs. Weston. “ Well, ladies, if 
you have finished your tea, we will go into the other 
room, where it is cooler. — You may clear the table, 
and put away the things, Selina ; and I will help you 
with the dishes by and by.” 

“Yes, that is always the way,” muttered Selina: 
“ always something to remind me that I am not one 
of the family.” It did not occur to Selina, that, if 
she had been one of the family, the same work would 
naturally have fallen to her share. She had lately 
taken to looking out for affronts ; and affronts are like 
the spooks of the old Dutch proverb, — those who go 
to look for them can always find them. 

“ You are going to have other neighbors this sum- 
mer,” remarked Miss Celia as she took out her com- 
pany knitting, a child’s fine white stocking. “The 
Richmonds are coming back to Mrs. Gleason’s.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Weston exchanged looks which were 


32 OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

not by any means expressive of joy. thought 
they said last summer they would not come again/* 
said Mrs. Weston. 

“ It seems they have changed their minds ; for 
Agnes Gleason told me she had just taken from the 
office a letter from Miss Amelia Richmond, in which 
she announced her mother’s intention of passing the 
summer months in this neighborhood, and entering 
into negotiations for Mrs. Gleason’s rooms. I con- 
fess I was sorry to hear it. I do not consider the 
influence of that family a very desirable one in this 
neighborhood.” 

“ I quite agree with you, cousin Celia,” said Mrs. 
Weston. “ I am sorry they are coming back. I do 
not think the rush of summer boarders we have had 
of late years has been any special advantage, as you 
say.” 

“ They bring a deal of money with them, if that is 
all,” said Aunt Betsy, clicking her needles in a very 
different style from Miss Celia’s rapid, noiseless man- 
ner of working. 

“That is not quite all.” 

“And I don’t think they have done Agnes Gleason 
any harm,” continued Aunt Betsy : “ she perfectly 
hates Milly Richmond.” 

“ It is not very good for us to perfectly hate peo- 
ple,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling. “ I hope Mrs. Van 
Zandt’s family will not be like the Richmonds.” 

“’Tain’t likely we shall have a chance to see what 
they are like,” said Aunt Betsy. “I hear they hold 
their heads very high. The pride of those Dutch 
folks in their families is perfectly ridiculous.” 


J\iiIGHBORHOOD NEWS. 


33 


‘‘ For the matter of that, we think a good deal of 
our families in these parts,” said Mrs. Weston, 
smiling. 

‘‘ That is different,” returned Aunt Betsy. 

‘‘ From what I know of Mrs. Van Zandt and her 
I nieces, I venture to predict that you will see them 
I in Sunday school the very first Sunday,” said Miss 
j Armstrong. 

! “Then I think they might just as well wait till 
they are asked,” retorted Aunt Betsy. “ We don’t 
want city folks poking in their noses, and finding 
fault with their betters, and with folks old enough 
to be their mothers ; ” all of which Aunt Betsy de- 
livered with a vengeful rattle of her knitting-needles, 
and a glance at Miss Armstrong which seemed to 
include her in the number of obnoxious “city folks.” 

“Mrs. Van Zandt is a Christian woman, then.?” 
asked Miss Celia. 

“ That she is, and a very excellent and energetic 
one,” answered Miss Armstrong. “ It is the delight 
of her life to fit up boxesTor missionaries and their 
families. I have known her to buy four or five dozen 
each of napkins, towels, sheets, and so forth, have 
them all hemmed by hand by some poor old ladies 
she knows (for she has never become reconciled to 
machine work), and within a month send them all to 
different missionaries* wives in the West and South, 
or in the city. My only wonder is, that she can 
make up her mind to remove so far from her beloved 
shops.” 

“Well, I didn’t suppose there were many people of 
that kind in New York,” said Aunt Betsy. “I sup- 


34 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


posed they were all given up to dress and fashion 
and frivolity.” 

‘‘There are as many good Christian people in 
New York as in any place in the world,” said Miss 
Armstrong with some emphasis. “ Why, Mrs. Burr, 
who do you suppose keeps up and manages all the 
charities, — the hospitals, and missions, and schools, 
and orphan-asylums, and nurseries, and all the rest ? ” 

Not having any answer at hand. Aunt Betsy took 
a pinch of snuff, — a practice not desirable in itself, 
but a convenience in such cases. 

“ I am glad to hear such an account of Mrs. Van 
Zandt,” said Miss Celia, busily binding off her heel. 
“ I felt disposed to like her, from what I heard of 
her kindness to Richard Van Zandt in his last days. 
But does not Mrs. Van Zandt work at all, herself ” 

“ She hems napkins, and knits,” replied Miss Arm- 
strong. “ I should say she must use up a hundred 
weight or so of wool every year, in one way or an- 
other.” 

“ That is a great deal, almost two pounds a week,” 
said Miss Celia, who took every thing literally. “To 
be sure, she may use double wool.” 

“ Double, treble, and single, and every other kind. 
She is sure to wish to convert you to the Welsh 
fashion of shaping heels. Miss Celia.” 

“ There I cannot agree with her,” said Miss Celia 
with emphasis, and yet with a little apology in her 
tone, as if she felt it a liberty to disagree even with 
an unknown Mrs. Van Zandt. “I do not like the 
Welsh heel : it is much harder to run and to mend, 
and it wears no better.” 


NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS. 


35 


“ I wonder what has become of Selina,” said Mrs. 
Weston, rising. She went into the wide, airy kitchen, 
which served as a dining-room in summer, and found 
Selina just finishing the last of the dishes. 

“Why, my dear, you need not have washed the 
dishes,” said she. “ I told you to put them together 
and leave them, and I would help you.” 

“Oh, I could do them well enough : it is the hired 
girl’s place, I suppose,” said Selina in a voice which 
trembled in spite of her. 

Mrs. Weston took no notice of this speech for the 
present. When the company was gone, and family 
prayers were over, — a custom never omitted in the 
family in the busiest season, — she followed Selina to 
her own neat, pretty room. 

“Selina,” said she gravely, “you have two or three 
times lately used the expression ‘hired girl.’ I want 
to know what you mean by it.” 

Selina was already growing ashamed of her ill 
humor. Perhaps it would be more correct to say she 
was growing tired of it, more especially as its exer- 
cise had deprived her of the pleasure of hearing the 
remainder of Aunt Betsy’s news. She twisted her 
handkerchief, and answered in a somewhat embar- 
rassed tone, — 

“ Oh, well, every one knows what a hired girl is.” 

“A hired girl, as I understand it, is a woman who 
works for money in a place which is not her home. 
It is a very useful calling, and, when faithfully ful- 
filled, worthy of the highest respect,” said Mrs. 
Weston, who had been a “ school-ma’am ” herself, 
and was habitually choice in her use of words. “ Is 


36 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

that your condition ? Do you work for wages ? and 
are you in a strange family ? 

** No, mother,” answered Selina in a low tone. 
Her better self was getting the upper hand, but she 
was not quite ready to give way. 

‘‘ Do you think you have more work put upon you 
than usually falls to the eldest daughter ? more than 
Agnes Gleason, for instance ? ” 

“ I don’t have so much to do as Agnes,” replied 
Selina frankly. “She never gets to school before 
half-past nine when the Richmonds are staying 
there.” 

“ And do you think that the things provided for 
you are given you as wages ? Is this room, for in- 
stance, such as people usually give to servants ? ” 

“ No, mother,” replied Selina. She paused a mo- 
ment, and then added frankly, “ I was cross, I sup- 
pose. Something happened at school which put me 
out.” 

“And so you came home and revenged that 
annoyance on me by saying something untrue to hurt 
my feelings. Was that right ? ” 

“ No, mother. But I did not think it was as bad 
as that. I am a wicked girl, and I always shall be,” 
said Selina, bursting into tears. “ I wish I had never 
been born.” 

“You will not mend matters by looking at them in 
that way,” said Mrs. Weston. “A little sober, honest 
self-examination and repentance will do you more 
good than any amount of that sort of passion.” She 
paused a moment, and then added very seriously, — 

“ Selina, Mr. Weston and myself have treated you 


NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS. 


37 


as a dear daughter ever since you came to us. We 
have tried our best to make you happy and good. 
But for the last year you have made us both very 
uncomfortable.” 

“ I don’t see how,” murmured Selina. 

“You can see well enough if you choose,” replied 
Mrs. Weston. “Your father is very much displeased 
with you ; and though we shall never cast you off, 
more than if you were our own, I fear, unless you turn 
over a new leaf, we shall have to make some different 
arrangement. My dear girl, why won’t you trust 
your best friends, and try to be what they would have 
you ? ” 

Selina sobbed that she was very sorry ; and Mrs. 
Weston, thinking she had said enough, kissed her 
good-night, and left her. Selina, left alone, cried for 
some time longer, told herself how hard it was to be 
an orphan cast on the cold charities of the world, and 
shed a great many tears, as she imagined to the 
memory of the mother she had never seen. Then, 
growing tired of this mood, she said to herself that no 
doubt Mr. and Mrs. Weston meant to be kind to her 
in their way, and that it was her duty to be grateful. 
She would show that she was so, by being amiable 
and affectionate, and bearing the trials of her lot 
patiently. If her own dear mother had lived, it would 
have been very different ; but, as it was, she must be 
resigned. And, feeling by this time very virtuous 
indeed, she went to bed. 


CHAPTER III. 


KIT AT HOME. 

Kit Mallory went swiftly over the high pasture 
till she reached the little spring ; and then, taking an 
oblique direction, she descended till she came to an old 
wooden house standing on the lowest ridge or terrace 
of the hill. It had once been a roomy, comfortable 
farmhouse, with a well-house, sheds, and barns ; but 
the buildings were out of repair, and the whole place 
looked as if it had suffered from a long course of 
neglect. Nevertheless, the stones at the back-door 
were white and clean, and the windows bright ; and a 
row of milk-pans turned up on a shelf showed that 
some one in the house was neat and pains-taking. 
The back-door stood open ; and, as Kit approached, a 
middle-aged woman appeared in it, making a sign for 
silence. She was tall and dark, and would have been 
handsome but for the look of hopeless weariness and 
despondency which had settled on her face. 

“ Is aunt Martha bad again ” asked Kit in a 
whisper. 

“Yes, I have had a terrible time with her all the 
afternoon. She has just dropped asleep, and I hope 
38 


KIT A T HOME. 


39 


she will not wake for a good long while. What kept 
you so late ? ” 

Kit gave a short account of herself. 

“That was all right,” said Symantha. “Is Miss 
Armstrong a nice lady?” 

“ She is j ust lovely ! ” answered Kit with enthusiasm. 

“ I hope she will be a good friend to you. You must 
try to learn all you can, and make the most of your 
time while we are here.” 

“ Ain’t we going to stay here, then ? ” asked Kit in 
a tone of anxiety and disappointment. “I thought 
uncle Phin owned this place.” 

“So he does — at least — yes, I suppose he does,” 
answered Symantha with a curious tone of hesitation, 
which made Kit look at her in surprise. “ But I have 
moved so many times, and about every time for the 
worse, that I don’t believe I shall ever feel settled 
any where. What nice apples ! ” she added, as if 
hastening to change the conversation. “ Where did 
you get them ? ” 

“ Mr. Weston gave them to me, and I brought them 
home for aunt Martha. Where are all the folks ?” 

“ Pa has gone over to Oldbury after a load of 
lumber. And Melissa is down at the Corners, I 
suppose : I haven’t seen her since morning. She 
always goes away if she can, you know, when ma gets 
one of her bad times ; and perhaps it is just as well.” 

“How tired you look!” said Kit. She hesitated 
a moment; and then, postponing a plan she had 
meant to put in execution as soon as she reached 
home, she added, “You lie down and rest, and let 
me get the supper. I can do it as well as not.” 


40 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

‘^Well, you may if you like/’ replied Symantha. 
“You are a good little thing, Kit. I don’t know 
what I should do without you sometimes.” As she 
spoke her face softened; and she bent down and 
kissed Kit, who returned the embrace with interest. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know what I should do without 
you,” said she. “ If it wasn’t for you. I’d run away 
and seek my fortune.” 

“ Hush,” said Symantha sharply. “ Don’t ever let 
father hear you say such a thing as that : I don’t 
know what he would do to you. Yes, you may get 
the supper ready, and I will rest till milking-time.” 

Left to herself. Kit went about her work, doing 
every thing with marvellous quickness and quiet- 
ness. Just as she had finished her preparations, she 
heard the sound of wheels and horses’ feet ; and pres- 
ently a man entered the back kitchen. Kit made a 
sign for silence. 

“ Where’s Symantha ? ” was the first question. 

“She’s lying down. Please don’t make such a 
noise, uncle Phin : aunt Martha has just gone to 
sleep.” 

“ Has she had a bad time ? ” 

Kit nodded. 

“Where’s Melissa.?” 

“I don’t know; I haven’t seen her. Symantha 
says she has gone to the Corners.” 

“ ni teach her to run off and leave all the work 
for her sister,” muttered Phin Mallory to himself; 
and then’^^oud, “Here, child, here’s a reader and 
spelling-book for you. Halloo, what’s that ? ” 

“A picture-paper, I guess,” said Kit; “and a 


KIT AT HOME. 


41 


little book,” she added, taking out of the parcel an 
illustrated Sunday-school paper, and a copy of that 
time-honored tract, ‘‘The Shepherd of Salisbury 
Plain,” with a pretty woodcut on the cover. Mr. 
Sandford at Oldbury was fond of this method of 
sowing seed, and seldom sold a book or parcel of 
books without putting in some similar document to 
that which Kit held in her hand. 

“What stuff is that said Phin. “I’ll teach old 
Sandford to be sending his rubbish into my house.” 
He made a step toward the stove as he spoke, as if 
to throw the papers into the fire. 

“ Oh, please don’t burn them up,” entreated Kit, 
holding his hand. “ I don’t hardly ever see a pic- 
ture, and these are so pretty. Please let me have 
them.” 

Phin still held the papers over the fire ; but some- 
thing in the pleading, upturned face seemed to move 
him, for he put them into her hand. 

“Here, child, take them, then. You don’t see 
many pretty things, that’s a fact. There, put the 
supper on the table ; I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Kit carried her prizes off in triumph to her own 
little room up stairs, and hid them away till she 
should have leisure to examine them. Then she 
hastened to finish her supper preparations, and had 
a comfortable meal ready on the table when Phin 
returned. He was a lithe, alert little man, looking 
as if he had seen some hard times and some dissipa- 
tion ; and there was a watchful, furtivei^pression in 
his face, not pleasant to see. 

“ So you got beat out,” said he to Symantha, as 


42 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

she appeared and took her seat at the table. *‘It 
was too bad in Melissa to run off and leave you with 
all the work. I’ll tell her what I think about it 
when she comes home.” 

She is just as well out of the way when ma has 
one of her bad times,” replied Symantha. *‘But I 
don’t see how any one can like to go visiting so, for- 
ever. I like to let other folks alone, and have them 
let me alone.” 

“Yes, you and pa would like to shut me up from 
one year’s end to another,” said Melissa, speaking for 
herself, as she came into the room with her hat on. 
“It has always been just so. But I’m not going to 
stand it. I like company, and I’m going to have it, 
so there ! — Kit, take my things up stairs, and get 
me a chair.” 

“Sit still, Kit,” said her father. “You just wait 
on yourself, my girl. Kit has been at work while 
you have been at play.” 

Melissa muttered something, but it seemed as if 
she did not care to provoke a dispute. She threw 
her hat and shawl into a corner, and took a seat at 
the table. 

“ We’re going to have new neighbors at the stone 
house,” said she after a little silence, “ some people 
from New York, — Van Zandt, or some such name.” 

“It was a Van Zandt that owned it before,” re- 
marked Symantha. 

“Yes; he has left it to some old lady in New 
York, and she is going to have it all fixed up for a 
summer house. She has got no end of money, and 
is going to bring her horses and servants and car- 


KIT AT HOME. 


43 


riages, and some young ladies, from New York ; so 
we shall have quite a gay time.” 

I don’t see how we shall have much to do with 
it,” said Symantha. I don’t suppose you mean to 
go and call on them, do you } 

** Why not > ” asked Melissa. “ I should just like 
to know.” 

'‘Because I say you sha’n’t, and that’s enough!” 
exclaimed her father, striking the table with his hand 
so as to make all the dishes rattle. “ I won’t have 
you go near them, do you hear.? not one of them. 
You mind me, too, Kit : don’t you go near the 
house.” 

“ Don’t, pa ; you will wake mother,” said Syman- 
tha. 

" Dear me, what a fuss about nothing I ” said Me- 
lissa. "One would think pa thought these people 
had the small-pox, or that he was afraid they would 
find out something.” 

Phin gave his daughter such a menacing glance 
that she evidently thought it better to say no more, 
and the meal was finished in silence. Kit washed 
the dishes, brought in wood, and arranged matters 
for the next morning. By that time it was dark, and 
she was weary enough to go to bed. Tired as she 
was, she did not forget to take out the card Miss 
Armstrong had given her, and read over the little 
prayer. She stood for a moment after she had fin- 
ished, as if thinking, and then said, half aloud, — 

"Please, our Father in heaven, I should like to 
have a Bible.” Then she crept into bed, and was 
asleep in a minute. 


44 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

The next morning Kit was up early, so early that 
the sun was only just gilding the very top of Blue 
Mountain. Nobody else was stirring in the house. 
It was a good time to put her plan into execution. 

There was a large, high garret to the old house, in 
which was stored the accumulated rubbish of a hun- 
dred years. Here was a tall eight-day clock, the case 
of which would have thrown a collector into ecsta- 
sies, side by side with a broken and disused loom ; 
there, a shelf full of bottles and more or less disabled 
crockery. A little room was roughly partitioned off 
at one end, and made a famous playing-place on a 
rainy day. It was in this garret that Kit had found 
her precious fragment of the ‘‘ Pilgrim’s Progress ” 
lying on the top of a box full of old books and 
papers. It had occurred to her that in this same box 
she might possibly find a Bible. 

She took out the volumes one by one, and looked 
at the titles. They were mostly old books of theol- 
ogy and collections of sermons ; but there were two 
or three volumes of travels and memoirs, which 
looked. Kit thought, as though they might be inter- 
esting, and she laid them aside for future considera- 
tion. At last, near the bottom of the box, she found 
a small volume handsomely bound and closely printed. 
She looked at the titlepage. 

^‘The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour 
Jesus Christ.” Was that the same as the Bible? 
Kit thought so, but she was not sure. 

“ I’ll take it to school, and show it to Miss Arm- 
strong. Anyhow, it tells about Him. What is this, 
I wonder? Never mind, I can’t look at it now.” 


KIT AT HOME. 


45 


Kit brushed the dust from her dress, washed her 
face and hands, and sat down to examine her new 
treasure. The first chapter seemed to be all hard 
names, so she opened about the middle of the book, 
and read about the shepherds who were watching 
their flocks by night, and were sent by the angels to 
find the babe lying in the manger, who was Christ 
the Lord. She read slowly, and had to spell some 
words ; but the story lost nothing of its force by 
that. 

“The very one Miss Armstrong was talking about,’* 
said Kit. “ How strange I If he was a little baby 
once, and grew up into a man afterward, there must 
have been a time when he was just as old as I am 
now.” 

Kit had no time to follow out her meditations. A 
call from below summoned her. 

“You can’t go to school to-day,” was the saluta- 
tion which met her as she entered the kitchen. 
“ Symantha’s sick, or thinks she is, and I want you 
to help me.” 

“ Oh, dear ! and I did want to go so much ! ” said 
Kit. “ Can’t you do without me, Melissa ^ I hate to 
be so irregular.” 

“ Let her go, Melissa,” said Symantha’s voice from 
the little bedroom. “I sha’n’t want any thing. I 
dare say I shall be able to get up presently; it is 
only one of my dizzy headaches.” 

“Yes, that is very likely, — that she is going to 
school, leaving me with you and ma to wait on, and 
all the work to do. I don’t believe pa will let her go, 
anyway, when he finds out about Miss Armstrong* 


46 OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

They say she is a regular Methodist, has prayers in 
school, and teaches the children out of the Bible. 
I mean to tell pa about it ; and then he won’t let you 
go at all. Miss Kit, and serve you right too.” 

Kit was used to Melissa’s tongue, and generally 
gave her back her sharp words with interest ; but 
the prospect of losing her precious schooling and the 
society of her new friend was too dreadful, and she 
burst into tears. 

“ Hush, Kit ; don’t cry,” said Symantha, raising 
her head, but obliged to drop it again. “ Pa won’t 
take you out of school. Oh, my head ! ” 

'Hs it so very bad.?” asked Kit, forgetting her 
own trouble for the moment. Can’t I do any thing 
for you .? ” 

‘‘You may look in the front-room cupboard, and 
see if you can find the alcohol bottle,” said Syman- 
tha, pressing her hand over her eyes. “ I had it up 
there, I know.” 

Kit sped up stairs, and found the bottle. As she 
passed the door of her own little room, she remem- 
bered her prayer of last night, and also that she had 
forgotten her promise to say one in the morning. 

“ What a shame ! ” she said to herself. “ And 
when He was so good, and gave me the Testament.” 
She went into her room, shut the door, and reverently 
repeated her little verse, — 

“ Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, 

Look upon a little child ; 

Pity my simplicity ; 

Suffer me to come to Thee.” 


KIT A T HOME. 


47 


“Jesus! That is the very one I was reading 
about, — that very one that was a little baby. I 
wonder if ‘He ever had to do things he didn’t like. 
Perhaps He had to stay at home sometimes to help 
His mother, but I don’t believe she was one bit like 
Melissa. But they were poor, I guess, and He must 
have had a great deal of trouble in His life ; so He 
knows all about it. Perhaps He would like it if I 
was good-natured, and staid at home.” Kit had not 
been gone ten minutes when she came back with the 
bottle, and set herself to bathe Symantha’s head and 
brush her hair ; but in that ten minutes a great 
change had come over her. She had entered into a 
new life. The little untaught, ignorant heathen had 
found her Saviour, had entered into conscious rela- 
tions with Him, and made a sacrifice for Him. The 
little seed dropped by a skilful sower into her heart 
had taken root and sprung up. The plant was young 
and tender as yet, one would say, easily crushed by a 
careless foot, or nibbled off by some passing animal ; 
but One was watching over it who is greater than all 
the changes and chances of this mortal life, and who 
makes them all work together for good to them that 
love Him. 

Kit said no more about going to school. She went 
into her aunt’s room, washed her face and hands, 
and coaxed her to drink a cup of coffee and eat a bit 
of toast. Mrs. Mallory must once have been a beau- 
tiful woman, judging by her regular features and still 
fair complexion ; but her hair was streaked with 
gray, her large dark-blue eyes, very much like Kit’s 
in shape and color, were wild and wandering, and 


48 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

she had a despairing, anxious expression, pitiful to 
see. 

‘‘ There, that is real good,” said Kit, speaking as 
one would to a sick and wayward child. “ Now you 
shall have a nice apple.” 

She produced one of the apples she had brought 
from Mr. Weston’s, and the poor woman took it 
with some show of pleasure. Something about Kit 
seemed to arrest her attention, for she held the 
child’s hand, and looked earnestly into her face. 

“ Who are you, little girl ? Haven’t I seen you 
somewhere ? ” 

“Why, yes, aunt Martha. I am Kit. You re- 
member Kit, don’t you ? ” 

Mrs. Mallory gazed at her a moment with a gleam 
of intelligence, and then, dropping her hand, sank 
back on her pillow. 

“ I don’t know,” said she. “ It all goes away from 
me. Every thing went when they took Him away.” 

“Well, never mind,” said Kit soothingly. “Eat 
the nice apple, and by and by you shall have an- 
other.” 

Seeing her aunt’s attention diverted for the mo- 
ment, Kit slipped from the room. Melissa was by 
this time in a better humor. Her moods were very 
much the result of her bodily feelings ; and she felt 
better, now that she had made her coffee as strong 
as she liked it, and eaten her breakfast. Kit waited 
on Symantha, and brushed her hair softly till she fell 
asleep ; got her aunt up and dressed her, and brought 
her some flowers '^rom the neglected garden. The 
last Mrs. Mallory had been fond of flowers, and a 


KIT A T HOME. 


49 


few of the hardy perennials she had planted still 
struggled for existence ; while in one corner the dear 
old-fashioned rose of May, neglected and forgotten 
now, opened its pretty pointed buds. Mrs. Mallory 
loved flowers, and a nosegay would keep her quiet 
and amused longer than any thing else. Certainly 
Kit did her full share of the work, and more; for 
Melissa was an accomplished shirks and, if she did 
not work herself, she was the cause of work in 
others. Symantha’s nap carried off her headache, 
and she was able to get up to dinner. 

“ Halloo, what are you doing here ? ” asked Phin 
as he came in and found Kit dishing up the dinner. 
** I thought you took your dinner to school.” 

“ I didn’t go to school,” answered Kit, busily stir- 
ring her gravy. “ I staid at home to help Melissa.” 

“Then don’t do it again, do you hear.?” said her 
uncle angrily. “ I am not going to have you staying 
out of school for every little thing.” 

“ I didn’t want to stay, I’m sure,” returned Kit ; 
and then, as some thought crossed her mind, she 
added in a gentler tone, “ Symantha couldn’t sit up, 
and Melissa wanted me to help her, so I did.” 

“ It wasn’t her fault,” added Symantha : “ Melissa 
kept her. Kit was very good-natured about it, I 
must say.” 

“ Good-natured or not, it isn’t to happen again. — 
Do you hear, Melissa.?” 

“ Hear what .? ” asked Melissa from the next room. 
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” 

“Then I’ll make you know,” said her father. “I 
say you are not to keep the child at home from school 


50 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

for any thing and every thing. I want her to go 
every day this summer. I’ve taught school myself, 
and I know what a nuisance it is to a teacher to have 
scholars so irregular. Mind, I won’t have it happen 
again.” 

‘'Oh, of course you won’t,” replied Melissa sulkily : 
“you care for every one more than you do for me. 
Never mind, I am not going to be made a slave of 
forever. I shall look out for myself some day.” 

“You do that now pretty well,” said Symantha. 

No answer was returned, and the family sat down 
to dinner. 

“ Did you really keep school once, uncle Phin ? ” 
asked Kit. 

“Yes,” replied her uncle, “when I was a young 
man I taught one winter in that very red school- 
house. I was a good scholar once, thanks to my 
mother.” 

“ Was your mother a nice woman } ” asked Kit, 
who was always hungry for any thing like a story. 

“That she was, — as good a woman as ever 
breathed,” replied Phin, his hard face softening a 
little. “ She had a great many notions that I don’t 
believe in, but she was just as good as they make.” 

“What a pity her grand-daughters are not like 
her ! ” said Melissa sarcastically. 

“ It is a pity,” replied her father dryly. 

“ Perhaps Kit may take after her if she keeps on 
going to school,” continued Melissa. “Miss Arm- 
strong is very pious, teaches the children verses out 
of the Bible, and talks to them like a Methodist class- 
leader.” 


KIT A T HOME. 


51 


** Maybe she will have to stop that some day,’* 
said her father. But, anyhow, the red schoolhouse 
is the only one near here, and Kit shall go to school 
if the teacher talks all through the Old Testament, 
and the New Testament too.” 

‘‘ Am I to go to school this afternoon } ” asked 
Kit as Phin rose from the table. 

‘‘ It is hardly worth while, I guess : you won’t 
more than get there before school is out. However, 
you can do as you like,” said Phin. 

Kit knew she should be in time for at least a part 
of the afternoon session ; so she made herself tidy, 
and skipped away rejoicing, her precious little Testa- 
ment safe in her pocket. She entered school some- 
what out of breath, and slipped into her seat as 
quietly as possible. 

‘‘You are late, Kitty, and you were away this 
morning,” said Miss Armstrong. “How does that 
happen } ” 

“ Melissa kept me at home to help do the work,” 
answered Kit. “ Symantha had one of her sick 
headaches, and couldn’t sit up a minute. But uncle 
Phin says I mustn’t do it again. He says it is bad 
for me and bad for the teacher.” 

“ How impudent she is, to answer Miss Armstrong 
so ! ” thought Selina. An undefined feeling of anger 
at Kit had been lurking in her mind ever since the 
day before, and she was glad to find something to 
justify it. Miss Armstrong, however, did not seem 
the least disturbed. 

“Your uncle is right,” said she: “irregular and 
tardy scholars hurt both themselves and the school. 


52 OLD//AM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Now you may take your book, and study your spell- 
ing and reading lessons.” 

It was with a feeling of satisfaction that Kit pro- 
duced her nice new reader and spelling-book. The 
Red Hill district stuck to Webster’s spelling-book, 
which was, perhaps, one reason why most of the 
children really learned to spell. The day before, Kit 
had been obliged to borrow her neighbor’s books, 
which did not please her at all, for she had an inde- 
pendent spirit. She was tempted to look at all the 
pictures, and read all the stories ; but she reflected 
that she could do that as well after school, and ap- 
plied herself to her lesson with such zeal that she 
went up several places in the spelling-class. At 
recess she brought her books to Miss Armstrong. 

“ Please, Miss Armstrong, will you write my name 
in my new books } ” 

“Certainly, my dear. What shall I write.?” 

Kit’s face darkened a little. “That’s just the 
trouble,” said she. “ I hate ‘ Keturah,’ and I don’t 
believe it is my name either.” 

“ Suppose we write it ' Kitty,’ ” said Miss Arm- 
strong : “that is short for Catherine, but it will do quite 
as well for Keturah. But you should not hate the name 
of Keturah, my dear. She was a great lady, I suppose ; 
at least, she was the wife of a very great man.” 

“ Was she .? ” asked Kit, much interested. 

“Yes: she was the second wife of Abraham, one 
of the most distinguished men that ever lived. Abra- 
ham was called the friend of God, and talked with 
Him face to face. So you see Keturah is not a bad 
name, after all.” 


KIT AT HOME. 


53 


“ I shall like it better, now I know about it ; but I 
don’t believe it is my right name, for all that,” said 
Kit. *‘But please. Miss Armstrong, may I ask you 
about something else ^ ” 

After school,” said Miss Armstrong, smiling. *‘I 
suppose, Kit, it never occurs to you children to 
think that a teacher likes her recess, as well as her 
scholars.” 

I am real sorry I bothered you,” said Kit peni- 
tently. ‘‘I won’t say another word.” And, putting 
her books away, she went out to the playground, 
where a lively game was in progress. 

‘‘Here is Kit; she’ll be /V, I know!” exclaimed 
Sarah Leet. “ You will, won’t you, Kit ? ” 

“ Of course, when I know what you are playing,” 
answered Kit. “ What do you want me to do ? ” 

“ Oh, to be king. We are playing king’s land ; 
and it is Selina’s turn, but she won’t.” 

“ I will, and I’ll catch you too,” said Kit, darting 
after Sarah, and catching her on the verge of her 
own territory. “There, I’ll let you off, because it 
was not quite fair to catch you before you had time 
to get off. — Now, girls, look out for yourselves.” 

“What a nice, good-natured little thing she is, 
after all ! ” said Faith Fletcher as Kit darted hither 
and thither, always on the watch, and turning up 
where she was least expected. 

“ Oh, yes, very nice indeed I ” said Selina, to whom 
the remark was addressed. “ I wonder how long it 
will last.” 

“ Well, I don’t see how you can wish to spite the 
poor little thing so,” said Sarah. “I should think 


54 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


you would have some feeling for her, trying so hard 
to make something of herself. 

“ I don’t spite her, and you have no business to 
say so,” said Selina angrily. 

‘‘Well, that’s the way it looks to me. When a 
person never can say a good word for another, and 
never likes to hear any one else do it, it looks a good 
deal like spite. However, it is no business of mine. 
— I’m on the king’s land ; the king — Ah, you little 
spirit ! I might have known you would catch me. 
There is the bell, so I don’t care.” 

The verse Miss Armstrong gave the children that 
evening was rather a long one, — “ God so loved the 
world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that who- 
soever believeth in Him should not perish, but have 
everlasting life” (St. John hi. i6). She asked a few 
questions, which were answered intelligently, even by 
the little children, though the Fletcher twins could 
not tell where Christ was born. 

“Sister is so busy, she has hardly any time to 
teach them,” said Faith apologetically, after school ; 
“but I thought they knew that.” 

“Cannot you teach them. Faith Have you no 
time to tell these little ones about the Saviour who 
died for them ? ” 

“They go to Sunday school always,” said Faith, 
“every Sunday unless it is bad weather.” 

“ Sunday schools are very good things, but they 
can never take the place of home teaching. Don’t 
you help them learn their lessons t ” 

“There is always so much to do Sundays and 
Saturdays,” answered Faith. And then she added 


KIT A T HOME. 


55 


frankly, I guess the truth is, I never thought of it ; 
but ril try to get time before next Sunday.” 

“Do,” said Miss Armstrong; “and. Faith, when 
you go to bed, read the parable of the sower, and 
remember that the cares of this world choke the 
Word, and make it unfruitful, quite as often and quite 
as surely as the deceitfulness of riches. Good-night, 
my child. — Now, Kitty, what can I do for you } ” 

“ Please, Miss Armstrong, is the New Testament 
part of the Bible ^ ” asked Kit. 

“Certainly, my dear, and a very important part. 
It contains the history of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
Why .? ” 

“ I was looking for a Bible up in the garret, and I 
found this,” answered Kit, producing her treasure. 
“I read some in it this morning about Mary and 
Joseph, and the baby that was Christ the Lord. Was 
He really ? ” 

“ Really and truly, Kitty, — as really and truly as 
that He now sits at the right hand of God the Father, 
ready to hear and help ns in all our troubles.” 

“ That is very strange,” said Kit. “ But I think 
it is lovely, too,” she added, her eyes lighting up with 
their peculiar sapphire-like brilliancy. “Isn’t it won- 
derful to think that He knows all about us .? ” 

“The more you know of the matter, the more 
strange and lovely it will appear to you, my dear. 
Now, let me advise you to begin here at this second 
chapter of St. Matthew’s Gospel, and read this book 
through, and at the same time ask God to teach you 
to understand it.” ' • 

“ And will He ? ” 


56 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

‘^Yes: He has promised He will, and He always 
keeps His word.” 

“ I’m sure I’m glad of it,” said Kit in her matter- 
of-fact way ; because I don’t have any help only 
what you give me. I can’t go to church and Sunday 
school, like the others.” 

If you could, my dear, if you had all the human 
helps in the world, you would need God’s help just 
as much. The most learned man in the world needs 
it just as much as you do. Now, see here; I have 
something else for you. Here is a card with the 
Lord’s Prayer printed on it in nice plain letters ; I 
want you to take it and learn it, so you can say it 
with the others. It is in your Testament too.” 

Is it called the Lord’s Prayer because He made 
it } ” asked Kit. 

‘‘Yes, for lhat very reason.” 

“Here is something else printed on the card, — 
‘ The Apostles’ Creed,’ ” said Kit, spelling out the 
word with some trouble. “What is that } ” 

“That is what all Christians believe, — a kind of 
summing-up of all the truths of the Bible,” answered 
Miss Armstrong. “Learn that too. Suppose you 
read it over to me.” 

“ I have heard that somewhere, I know,” said Kit 
when she had finished reading the Creed. “ Seems to 
me it was in a church out West, but I can’t tell exactly. 
I guess it was in the Indian church. But, Miss Arm- 
strong, I shall have to learn these in school, I guess.” 

“ Very well ; we will make time for them. Now 
I must not keep poor Selina waiting any longer. 
Good-night, my dear, and God bless you ! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 


STRANGERS. 

‘‘Are you tired of waiting, Selina.?’* asked Miss 
Armstrong as she locked the schoolhouse door, and 
put the key into her basket. “You need not have 
staid. I don’t believe I should be so stupid as to 
lose my way twice.” 

“ I liked to,” said Selina with a great effort : “ it 
is pleasanter than walking home alone. But I think 
it is too bad to keep you after school so.” 

“Oh, I am used to that,” answered Miss Arm- 
strong, smiling. “ I usually get ‘ kept after school ’ 
oftener than my scholars do. I am pleased when 
the girls come to me with questions. I am very 
much interested in poor Kitty ; I hope to be able 
to do something for her.” 

“ They must be an ignorant, low set,” said Selina. 
“ Fancy any one not knowing that the New Testa- 
ment is a part of the Bible ! ” 

“A good deal more than half the people in the 
world are in the same condition, including various 
kings, nobles, and others of unquestionable gentil- 
ity,” said Miss Armstrong. “ I have met with many 


58 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


such cases in the city ; but I was surprised, I con- 
fess, to find one here.’* 

Oh, well ! Phin Mallory has not always lived 
here. He has lived out West, and in all sorts of 
wild places,” replied Selina, jealous for the reputation 
of the neighborhood. *'If he had grown up in Old- 
ham, I dare say he would have been different.” 

“ I think it altogether probable that one might find 
people who have grown up in Oldham whose cases are 
still more remarkable,” said Miss Armstrong, “though 
such cases are so common that their peculiarity does 
not strike you unless you consider the matter.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said Selina. 

“ I am thinking of people who have been brought 
up to know a great deal about both the Old and 
New Testaments, who are carefully instructed in the 
Bible, and profess to believe it, and who yet behave 
as if there were no such thing.” 

Selina blushed. She knew very well that this 
was very much her own case. “ Do you think that 
is so much more strange.?” said she. 

“Which would be the more remarkable, — that a 
man should walk off a precipice in the dark, or that 
he should do so in the daytime with his eyes open ? ” 
asked Miss Armstrong. 

“ That he should do it in the daytime, of course,” 
replied Selina ; “ but that is different.” 

“ It is a fair illustration, I think,” said Miss Arm- 
strong. “A man professes to believe that there is 
no salvation for any one who does not accept the 
Lord Jesus for his Saviour, and give himself up to 
Him ; and yet he does neither.” 


STRANGEKS. 


59 


** I don’t understand what people mean by that,” 
said Selina, — “I mean, by what they call a saving 
faith.” 

“ A saving faith, as distinguished from a merely 
historic faith, is a faith that leads to action. To give 
you a homely illustration : Mr. Bassett, here in the 
mill, believes that school will open at nine o’clock 
to-morrow ; that is, if he thinks of it at all. But 
it makes no practical difference to him : he will 
not rise an hour earlier, or make any change in his 
arrangements, on that account. But to me it is, so 
to speak, the central fact of my day ; and all my 
plans are made in reference to it. So a man has a 
kind of belief in the Saviour ; that is, he believes 
that there was such a person, and that He did the 
works ascribed to Him : but he does not make any 
alteration in his life on that account. But let that 
man be once waked up to the truth that he is a lost 
sinner, with no hope of deliverance except in this 
same Saviour, and he will not rest till he has made 
that Saviour his own.” 

Then all people want is, to be waked up,” said 
Selina. “If that is the case, I wonder true Chris- 
tians don’t talk to people about such things more 
than they do.” 

“ It is, no doubt, a duty grievously neglected,” said 
Miss Armstrong; “but it is not all, by any means. 
People go on in sin, not because they don’t know 
any better, but because they love sin. They know, 
that, if they become really Christians, they must do 
many things which they don’t like to do, and give 
up many things they don’t like to give up ; and they 


6o 


OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


cannot make up their minds to such a course. The 
cross looks very hard and heavy, and they don’t like 
to meddle with it.” 

“ Some people say there is nothing but joy in the 
life of a true Christian,” observed Selina. 

‘‘ The life of a true Christian must be very unlike 
that of his Master, then,” replied Miss Armstrong. 
“The very sight and thought of so many going the 
broad way to destruction must hinder any true Chris- 
tian from being perfectly happy at all times. ‘ The 
disciple is not above his Master, nor the servant 
above his Lord.’ But, Selina, how is it with you 
You ought not to need any arousing on this sub 
ject.” 

“One may sometimes have too much of a good 
thing,” said Selina lightly ; and then, willing to dis- 
miss the subject, she exclaimed, “ I wonder whose 
carriage this is coming up the hill ! I am sure it 
does not belong about here.” 

“It is Mrs. Van Zandt’s,” said Miss Armstrong 
with an expression of pleasure. “ She wrote me 
that she meant to drive over from Oldbury.” As she 
spoke, the carriage came up to them and stopped ; 
and the coachman, touching his hat, asked Selina 
if they were in the right road to the Van Zandt 
mansion. 

“You are right so far, but you must turn to the 
left by that red house,” said Selina. She looked 
round for Miss Armstrong, and saw that she was 
already at the carriage window, exchanging greetings 
with the persons within. One was an old lady with 
beautiful white hair put up in puffs under a shady 


STRANGERS. 


6l 


bonnet. The others seemed to be young, but Selina 
could not see them distinctly. She felt a sense of 
being forlorn and neglected, as if Miss Armstrong 
had somehow done her an injury by being acquainted 
with these strangers, while she was not. It was not 
very reasonable, but it is a feeling which almost 
every one has experienced at some time. Miss Arm- 
strong hastened to catch up with her. 

“ What made you run away } ” said she. “ I wanted 
Mrs. Van Zandt to see you.” 

“ She is a handsome old lady, isn’t she } ” said 
Selina, not answering the question, which, indeed, 
she would not have found easy. “ How prettily she 
was dressed ! I do love to see an old lady dressed 
like an old lady.” 

“ And so do I,” answered Miss Armstrong. 
“ There is no more pitiable spectacle, to my mind, 
than that of an old woman trying to look young.” 

“ Some old people feel young,” observed Selina. 
“There is Miss Delia Claxton standing at her gate 
now. She says she does not feel any older than she did 
when she was twenty, but she does not dress young.” 

“ I dare say not. People who feel young seldom 
do. How very pretty she is ! ” 

Miss Delia did indeed look wonderfully pretty as 
she stood under the great tree at her own gate, with 
the flickering lights and shadows glancing over her 
delicate calico dress, and the white Shetland shawl 
she had thrown over her head. She was an alert 
little body, with a clear, dark complexion, plenty of 
color, and bright hazel eyes, made still brighter by 
the whiteness of her abundant wavy hair. 


62 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

**Good evening, Miss Armstrong,^* she said in a 
cheery voice as soon as that lady came within hail- 
ing distance. ‘‘ I am out staring after our new 
neighbors, you see. That isn’t very dignified, is it ? 
but, dear me, one sees so little here, that a travelling- 
carriage is quite a sight. Celia says you know these 
ladies. Miss Armstrong, and that they are very nice 
people.” 

‘‘That they certainly are,” said Miss Armstrong, 
smiling. “I think you will like them very much.” 

“Well, I am glad to hear that,” said Miss Delia 
emphatically; “because, you see, being connections 
in a kind of way, we must call upon them. Dick 
Van Zandt’s mother was first cousin to our mother. 
She was a Butler, you see, and her mother was a Ring 
belonging to the Rings of Rollock, the same family 
that our maternal grandmother came from ; so, of 
course, we must call. You will smile at that, though,” 
added Miss Delia, breaking in on herself with a good- 
natured laugh: “strangers don’t understand how 
much we think of relationship and descent in these 
parts.” 

“ I am Scotch, and an Armstrong,” replied Miss 
Armstrong, smiling in her turn ; “ and you know the 
Scotch count kindred to the tenth degree, at least. 
But I assure you. Miss Delia, you will like Mrs. 
Van Zandt very much. She is odd, — at least, most 
people consider her so, — but she is very lovely.” 

“ I am considered odd myself, so I can’t quarrel with 
that,” replied Miss Delia. “You see, we don’t often 
call on the summer boarders,” she added : “one does 
not know much about their antecedents, as a rule, and 


STI^ANGERS. 63 

some of them are not very nice. — I hear that the 
Richmonds are coming back, Selina.” 

‘‘They are, I believe,” answered Selina rather 
shortly, as though the subject were not very agree- 
able. 

“ Well, if they do, I hope you won’t go making an 
intimate of that Amelia,” said Miss Delia : “ she is 
not a nice friend for you. Well, there, child, don’t 
color so : I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. — Miss 
Armstrong, won’t you and Selina come in and stay 
to tea .? I am sure Celia would be delighted to have 
you. You will excuse my not having called. The 
fact is, I had been coloring carpet-rags, and I never 
can do that without coloring my hands at the same 
time ; so I told Celia she must do duty for both. But 
I should so like to have you stay to tea ! ” 

“Not to-night,” replied Miss Armstrong, seizing 
the chance when Miss Delia stopped for lack of 
breath. “ Some other night I shall be very happy.” 

“ Any time ; stop in on your way home from school. 
— Here, wait a minute.” She went into the house 
as she spoke, and returned with a plate of cakes. 

“Here, Selina, take these to your mother,” said 
she; then to Miss Armstrong, in explanation, “They 
are old-fashioned ginger-nuts made with honey. It 
is a family recipe, and they do say nobody but a 
Claxton can make them properly ; but I will give you 
the rule if you like.” 

“ And I will give you the recipe for short-bread, 
which they say none but a Scotchwoman can make 
properly ; and we will both try to disprove the rule,’' 
answered Miss Armstrong. “Come, Selina; we 


64 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

ought to be at home. Your mother will think I am 
lost again. — Good-night, Miss Delia. — What a bright 
little lady she is ! ” added Miss Armstrong as they 
walked away. She seems quite different from her 
sister.” 

‘^Most people like Miss Celia best,” remarked 
Selina : “ Miss Delia is so sharp, and she makes such 
queer remarks. One day Mrs. Blandy — she lives in 
that big house on the corner next the church — she 
said one day at the society that she didn’t believe in 
foreign missions. ‘Well,’ said Miss Delia, ‘if every 
one had been of your mind, Mrs. Blandy, you would 
be going about dressed in a neat-fitting suit of blue 
paint instead of that handsome black silk, and hiding 
away that fat little boy of yours to keep him from 
being burned alive as a sacrifice to Bel.’ — ‘What 
do you mean. Miss Delia ? ’ asked Mrs. Blandy. 
‘ Nothing, only that was what your ancestors were 
doing in the time when the Church at Jerusalem sent 
out so many foreign missionaries,’ answered Miss 
Delia ; ‘ and, if the apostles had been of your way 
of thinking, you would probably be doing the same 
now.’ ” 

“ I don’t see any thing odd in that,” remarked Miss 
Armstrong : “ it was only a simple statement of facts. 
And what then ? ” 

“ And then Mrs. Blandy said it was a very different 
thing, sending missionaries to England, from what it 
was sending them clear off to India ; and Miss Delia 
said, ‘Yes, very different: a much harder and more 
perilous journey, and much more trouble and danger 
when they got there.’ You see, Miss Delia is a 


STRANGERS. 


65 


great reader, and she never forgets any thing: so, 
when people talk against missions or any such thing, 
she always gets the last word.” 

I should say she deserved it if she always argued 
as well as in this case,” said Miss Armstrong, much 
amused. 

‘‘Yes, ma’am ; but you see people don’t like to be 
put down, and shown to be in the wrong. I’m sure 
I don’t.” 

“ What ! not when you are in the wrong } ” 

“ I think that is the time when one likes it least 
of all,” replied Selina frankly. 

“But how are you ever to be set right, in that 
case } ” 

“ I don’t think Mrs. Blandy cared about being set 
right, very much,” replied Selina. “ She said again 
that charity began at home. And then Miss Delia 
began to talk about the orphan-asylum at Oldbury, 
and poor Mrs. Graves who has a sick husband and 
four little children. And she asked Mrs. Blandy if 
she had not a frock to make over for the little girls, 
so they could be decent to come to Sunday school ; 
but Mrs. Blandy said she was calculating to make a 
rag carpet pretty soon, and she had to save all her old 
clothes for that, because she meant to take the prize 
for it at the State fair.” 

Miss Armstrong smiled and sighed. She had met 
a great many Mrs. Blandys in her lifetime. 

“ I think I should like to be a foreign missionary,” 
said Selina, after they had walked a little way in 
silence. 

“ Why ? ” asked Miss Armstrong. 


66 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** Oh, because there would be some adventure and 
romance about it. It would not be all prose, like 
one’s life here.” 

‘‘My dear, if you allow your life to be all prose 
here, it would be prosy anywhere. And the prose 
of a mission-life among heathen is much more dis- 
agreeable than that of a daughter’s life at home in 
New England. I know, because I have tried it. 
What would you think, for instance, of combing and 
washing a dozen children who never were combed or 
washed before in their lives ? ” 

“I did not suppose missionary ladies did such 
things as that,” said Selina, 

“ They do a great many such things as that, and 
worse, such as I don’t care to tell you about just 
before supper,” replied Miss Armstrong. “I have 
often wished that our missionaries would give us 
more of just such details, that people could see what 
the life really is.” 

“ Why don’t they ? ” asked Selina. 

“ Well, for various reasons. They are afraid, for one 
thing, of disgusting and discouraging people ; making 
them think there is no use in doing any thing.” 

“ I should think, the worse the people were, the 
more need there was for teaching them better,” ob- 
served Selina. 

“That is a very just remark, but a great many 
people do not see it in that light. Then these mat- 
ters of personal experience become every-day occur- 
rences, and they do not think of them as being any 
more novel or interesting to others than to them- 
selves.” 


STRANGERS. 


67 


“ I think they are interesting, though,’* said Selina. 
“ Little things like that are just what make a story 
seem real.” 

“Very true, again. But, Selina, you would never 
make a missionary if that is to be your only motive. 
The romance and adventure soon wear off, and the 
hard and prosaic duties remain. You need a much 
stronger and purer motive than that, even the love 
of God in your heart, the same that sent the early 
Christians everywhere preaching the Word, and that 
now sends hundreds of men and women every year 
to preach the glad tidings to those who sit in dark- 
ness and the shadow of death. Have you that love 
in your heart ? ” 

“ I am afraid not,” answered Selina. “ But, sup- 
pose I had, do you think I should make a good mis- 
sionary ? ” 

“ I could hardly say that on so short an acquaint- 
ance,” replied Miss Armstrong. “Consider, my 
dear, that I have not known you quite a week. I 
do not see, however, any reason why you should not 
make as good a missionary as another. But, Selina, 
let me say one word more : unless you have that love 
in your heart, you are no more fit for a life here at 
home than you would be for a life in India. You 
want Him just as much in one place as another, and 
you can no more be happy without Him. Won’t 
you think about that, my child ” 

“Yes, Miss Armstrong, I will,” answered Selina; 
and at the time she fully meant what she said. She 
was much more pleasant all the rest of the week, 
and her mother rejoiced over the change. “Girls 


68 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

are full of moods and fancies,” she said to her hus- 
band. “ We must have patience, father.” 

“I never knew you to have any thing else, 
mother,” was the reply. Mr. Weston had full confi- 
dence in his wife’s judgment, and he was very fond 
of his adopted daughter. 

It had long been the custom to hold a service in 
the red schoolhouse on Friday evenings. This ser- 
vice was usually called the Bible class, because a 
portion of Scripture, usually the Epistle or Gospel 
for the next Sunday, was given out beforehand to be 
talked over. The minister, if he was present, read 
a short service; and a hymn was sung to a familiar 
tune. Then the discussion was opened by the pas- 
tor, or whoever supplied his place; and every one 
spoke who had any thing to say. Even the little 
children were encouraged to repeat texts, and verses 
of hymns. This service had been started by old Dr. 
Munson, who had preached, and also practised, in 
Oldham for forty years. He had been dead for a 
quarter of a century, but the Bible class he had 
begun lived after him. 

The meetings of the class were usually tolerably 
well attended in winter ; but the numbers fell off in 
warm weather, when, truth to tell, the red school- 
house was apt to be warm and close. Those who 
came on this particular evening, however, were des- 
tined to find it much more comfortable than usual. 

“Now, who will stay and help me put the school- 
room in order asked Miss Armstrong, as the after- 
noon session drew to a close. 

The girls looked at each other in surprise. 


STRANGERS. 69 

“The Bible class meets here this evening, Miss 
Armstrong,” said Ruth Jewsbury. 

“I know it, my dear. That is just the reason we 
want to put the room in nice order.” 

“ I don’t see it,” answered Ruth bluntly. 

“ Don’t see what } ” 

“ I don’t see the use of sweeping, when the people 
will put all out of order again.” 

“Suppose some distinguished person — Mr. Long- 
fellow, say, or the Bishop — were going to be here.” 

“ Oh, well ! then, of course, we should want things 
to look neat. But there will be nobody like that 
coming to-night.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” asked Miss Armstrong. “ Who 
is it that says, ‘ Where two or three are gathered in 
my name, there am I in the midst of them ’ ? ” 

“ I never thought of that,” said Sarah Leet. “But, 
Miss Armstrong, why don’t they keep the church 
cleaner, then ? ” 

“You must put that question to somebody besides 
me,” answered Miss Armstrong. “Now, who will 
help me ? ” 

Half a dozen volunteered at once, of whom Kit 
Mallory was one. There was a large old-fashioned 
fireplace in the room, which had been closed with a 
fireboard when the increasing scarcity of wood had 
made a stove necessary. Miss Armstrong had per- 
suaded Mr. Weston to remove this board, and leave 
open the great chimney, which’ thus made an excel- 
lent ventilating-shaft. She had found a tall pickle- 
jar among Mrs. Weston’s stores, which she placed 
on the hearth, and filled, with the children’s assist- 


70 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


ance, with sweet-fern, cedar-boughs, and brakes. 
The windows were opened at top and bottom, the 
room carefully swept and dusted, and a glass of 
fresh, sweet flowers placed on the table. 

** How nice it looks, and how fresh and sweet it 
smells ! said Kit, who had been one of Miss Arm- 
strong’s most efficient helpers. Isn’t it too bad. 
Miss Armstrong, that I can’t come to the meet- 
ing?” 

“ Can’t come to the meeting ? why not ? ” asked 
the voice of Mr. Bassett, the miller, from the open 
door. ‘‘ Why can’t you come, child ? ” 

Uncle Phin won’t let me,” answered Kit. She 
did not care to be further catechised about her uncle 
and his ways, and slipped away without even bidding 
Miss Armstrong good-night, — an omission which 
Selina did not fail to notice, and register in her pri- 
vate account of Kit’s misdeeds. 

Poor little young one ! ” said the kindly miller. 
** What a shame that she can’t come, when she wants 
to so much ! I feel for that child. I wish one could 
do something for her.” 

“I hope something may be done ; but it seems one 
of the cases where one must proceed with caution, 
for fear of doing more harm than good.” 

“I guess you are about right there. We must 
keep her in mind, and perhaps a way will be opened. 
Well, Miss Armstrong, I came over to fix things for 
the Bible class, but I don’t see that you have left me 
any thing to do. That is a first-rate "'idea, — getting 
that chimney open. I don’t blame people for getting 
sleepy when the room is hot as an oven, and so close 


STRANGERS. 


71 


you couldn’t slip in a flax-seed sharp end first. I feel 
as if we were going to have a real good time.” 

“ What about lights } ” asked Miss Armstrong. 

“I always calculate to provide them. We don’t 
have many in summer. — I hope you will all come, 
girls, and all have a verse at least. Will your sister 
be out. Faith ^ ” 

“I don’t believe she will,” answered Faith: *‘she 
has so much to do.” 

“ She would do it a deal easier, and better too, if 
she would take some rest now and again, — that’s 
my opinion,” said the miller. “Between the mill 
and the farm and the blacksmith-shop, I have plenty 
of irons in the fire, and I don’t let them get cold, 
either ; but I couldn’t afford not to take time for the 
Bible class. You tell her what I say. And you 
come along with me : I’ve got some nice early pease 
to send her. The folks laughed at me for buying 
them, — they’re some I sent for to Flower City, — 
and said the old-fashioned ones were good enough. 
‘You have the laugh,’ says I, ‘I’ll have the pease.’ 
Now I’ve got the laugh, and the pease too. Come 
along, little ones, and see if Ma Bassett hasn’t got 
some gingerbread. You leave the key. Miss Arm- 
strong, and I’ll see to the rest. I feel as if we were 
going to have a real good time.” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE MEETING. 

It appeared that Mr. Bassett’s prophecy was going 
to be fulfilled ; so far, at least, as numbers were con- 
cerned. The children carried home the news that 
Miss Armstrong had the schoolhouse all swept out, 
instead of leaving it to be done at noon on Saturday; 
that she had helped to dust the desks and seats with 
her own hands, and had put flowers on the desk and 
in th.e fireplace, because she said the room ought to 
be made neat and pleasant for the service of God. 
Truth to tell, this idea, which would not be consid- 
ered very original in many places, was one which 
had not found entrance to the minds of people in 
Oldham. 

She had better go and talk to Mr. Archimball, 
the sexton at the Corners,” said Mrs. Gleason, when 
Agnes told her what Miss Armstrong had said. ‘‘ I 
do hate to wear my black silk to church Sundays, 
because I get it just covered with dust. I believe 
I will go to Bible class this evening.” 

“Do,” said Agnes. “I’ll take care of the milk 
if you will.” 

72 


THE MEETING. 


73 


“ Oh, we can both go. It is only to have supper 
a little earlier. Set the table, and I’ll have it ready 
directly.” 

“ Won’t you go to the class to-night, sister ? ” asked 
Faith Fletcher when she had put away the children’s 
books, and put on their home aprons. 

How can I go ” asked Patience. There is the 
milk to take care of, and the dishes to wash, and 
Eddy’s new frock to finish so she can wear it on 
Sunday. It is easy to talk about going to class.” 

“ Well, I can wash the dishes and take care of the 
milk as well as you, if you would only think so ; and 
there will be time enough to finish Eddy’s frock 
to-morrow. Besides, if she don’t have it, she can 
wear her old one : it looks as well as it did last 
Sunday. Come, sister, do go for once. Mr. Bassett 
says he knows it will do you good.” 

“Yes, much he knows about my work.” 

“Well, there is one thing /would like to know,” 
said Faith, who was not easily put down when she 
once took a fit of “ arguing,” as her sister called it : 
“ I should like to know where is the use of being a 
Christian when one does not get any comfort or help 
out of it. Seems to me, if I was a church-member, 
and professed to love the Lord better than any one 
else. I’d go where I was sure to meet Him, even if I 
had to put my dishes in cold water to soak, and 
didn’t wash them till next morning.” 

“ What a girl you are to talk ! ” said Patience, half 
vexed, half laughing. “ It is a pity you were not a 
boy, so you could be a preacher. I suppose I ought 
to go sometimes, that’s a fact.” 


OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 


‘‘ Mr. Bassett says it would do you good,” persisted 
Faith. He says, with all he has to do, he finds it 
a rest to go to the class. Come, sister, do try it for 
once, ril put the children to bed, and do all the 
work, if you will.” 

“ Don’t you want to go yourself 1 ” 

‘'Yes, I should like it well enough; but I don’t 
suppose we could both be spared. Pa couldn’t put 
the twins to bed.” 

" What is that pa can’t do } ” asked Mr. Fletcher 
from the door. He was a tall, spare, elderly man, 
with a somewhat careworn, considerate face, grave 
but not unkindly, and with a sparkle of humor in it. 
“ What is that you think pa can’t do 1 Put the chil- 
dren to bed } He can do it as well as you or any 
old woman in Oldham ; and, if he should happen to 
stick the pins in with the heads west instead of east, 
sissy can alter ’em when she comes home. They 
won’t disturb the balance of the solar system much 
for that time. Just run down and let in the cows, 
Faithy : they are mooing at the bars ; and look on 
my work-bench, and see if I left my other glasses. — 
The fact is, sister. Faith is more than half right,” he 
added more seriously. “ I don’t like to say any thing 
that sounds like blaming you, considering all you do; 
but just look at it. You say you wish Faith cared 
mora about religion ; but how can you wonder that 
she thinks it a matter of no great consequence, after 
all, when she sees us let every thing come before 
it, — when she sees us, who, as she says, profess to 
love God, so wrapped up in the little things of this 
world that we haven’t any time for His service 1 I 


THE MEETING. 75 

must say, when I heard the child talking just now, 
I felt reproved.” 

“ Oh, well, ril go,” said Patience in a somewhat 
aggrieved tone; “but I think it is rather hard on 
me, when I make a slave of myself for you and the 
children, to be called worldly and all that, as if I 
spent my whole time dressing and visiting, like Mary 
Blandy.” 

“ In the first place, I didn’t call you so, not as I 
remember,” replied her father. “ I said we were too 
much taken up with the things of the world ; which 
I take to be all things that perish in the using, 
whether they be dresses, or rolls of butter, or bean- 
threshers. In the next place, daughter, we should 
none of us be slaves, but the Lord’s free men and 
free women.” 

“Why don’t you go yourself, then, pa, if we are 
going to do so much good by it ? ” asked Patience, 
already ashamed of her little burst of temper, which, 
in truth, was more nervous fatigue than any thing 
else. 

“ Because I think you need rest and refreshment 
rather mgr.® -than I do, my daughter. A man’s work 
is less tiring than a woman’s, seeing he is out in 
the fresh air most of the time ; at least, that is my 
opinion.” 

“ Everybody isn’t like you, pa,” said poor Patience, 
who felt the moisture uncomfortably near her.^yes. 
“ Ezra makes more steps in a day when he is at 
home than you do in a week, though he is always 
saying, ‘ Oh, don’t trouble yourself ! ’ ” 

“ Ezra is only a boy ; but he is a pretty good boy. 


76 OLDHAM; OL, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

after all, and we are both prouder of him than a hen 
with one chicken,” returned her father. ‘‘Come, 
sister, go to the class, and take Faith ; and let me 
put the little ones to bed. Maybe the child might 
get just the word she needs.” 

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” said Patience; and 
she went. 

The room at the red schoolhouse was really full, 
— an uncommon sight at any time, and especially in 
summer. All the Westons and Bassetts were there, 
of course, as well as Miss Celia and Miss Delia: these 
were the standbys always on hand. What a bless- 
ing it is that there are always a few such standbys 
belonging to every parish ! Patience Fletcher came 
in with Faith, and sat down by the window. Then 
there were the Jewsbury girls, who did not often go 
to church, even on Sunday ; and old Miss Wright, 
who eked out a scanty living by bleaching and trim- 
ming bonnets, and who had never been to church at 
Oldham since the last rector’s sister bought her 
bonnet ready trimmed at Oldbury; and almost all 
the children of the school who were big enough to 
sit up till eight o’clock. Just as it was time for the 
service to begin, there was a little movement at the 
door ; and Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt came in, followed 
by her two young nieces. Miss Bogardus and Ida 
Van Zandt. Mrs. Van Zandt wore a large, soft 
white wrap, and had put a light, fleecy summer hood 
over the widow’s cap she always wore. She was a 
very handsome old lady, with those bright-gray eyes 
which have a way of looking black from the dilation 
of the pupils, and which no age or sickness ever 


THE MEETING. 


77 


quenches. She was one of those people of whom 
one naturally says, on seeing them, “ Who is that ” 
She accepted the chair set for her, with a kindly 
smile, and bent her head for a few moments in 
prayer. Ida and Amity slipped into seats beside 
Patience and Faith Fletcher. 

“What a plain little body!” thought Patience. 
“Nobody would take her for a great heiress. But 
she looks good, as if one could depend on her.” 

“What a fine face, if it were not so tired and 
worn I ” thought Amity. “ She must be carrying a 
great weight, somehow. I wish one could do some- 
thing to help her.” And Amity did something for 
Patience then and there, though Patience never knew 
it. 

The meeting was opened in the usual way. There 
was no rector in Oldham at present, so Mr. Weston 
read a part of the evening service, and gave out the 
hymn, “Jesus, lover of my soul.” There was a 
little delay : the young man who usually started the 
hymn was not present. But in a moment a new voice 
began the beautiful Spanish Hymn, — such a voice, 
for power and cultivation, as had never been beard 
in the red schoolhouse before. People almost held 
their breath to listen, and it seemed at first as if Ida 
would have all the singing to herself ; but presently 
one and another joined in, till every one in the room 
was singing, children and all. 

“ Wasn’t that lovely ! ” whispered Faith, getting 
hold of her sister’s hand, and squeezing it. Patience 
smiled, and returned the pressure ; but she did not 
speak. 


yS OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

When the hymn was done, Mr. Weston read a 
part of the tenth chapter of St. John, and called 
upon Mr. Bassett to begin the lesson. Mr. Bassett 
had what he would have called a good common- 
school education. He knew Brown’s Grammar from 
beginning to end, and could have parsed any sen- 
tence you liked to give him : but, like other people, 
when he was in earnest, he went back to his native 
idioms ; and he was much in earnest to-night. He 
spoke of the Shepherd’s love, not only for His obedi- 
ent sheep, but for the others who were not of His 
fold, — for those who, ignorant and misled, had gone 
astray, and were lost on the dark mountains. He 
spoke of the duty of true disciples toward such lost 
lambs ; and of how much might be done by kindness, 
and watchfulness of opportunities, to lead them back 
to the Shepherd’s arms. There was just such a lost 
lamb — nay, the very one the good man had in his 
mind — listening under the window at that moment. 
Mr. Bassett did not know that, but the Shepherd did. 

The children repeated their verses more or less 
correctly ; and two or three, who had not learned any, 
determined to do so next time. Miss Armstrong re- 
peated two verses of the old Scotch version of the 
twenty-third Psalm, “ The Lord’s my Shepherd ; I’ll 
not want.” Miss Celia Claxton said a few words on 
her verse, “I will guide thee with mine eye” (Ps. 
xxxii. 8). She spoke of the service of God setting 
free from the corroding cares of this world, and how 
those who kept close enough to the Shepherd to see 
His face were spared many distressing doubts and 
perplexities, because His loving and warning glance 


THE MEETING. 


79 


made all things plain. Patience Fletcher repeated a 
verse from the one hundred and nineteenth Psalm, 
“ My soul cleaveth unto the dust : quicken Thou 
me according to Thy word.” 

There was a little pause, and then Mrs. Van 
Zandt’s voice was heard, a little tremulous with 
age,— 

“ Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy 
laden, and I will give you rest.” Mrs. Van Zandt 
said a few words on the need and sweetness of rest, 
and the impossibility of finding it anywhere but in 
Christ, and then only by making a full surrender and 
consecration of the heart and all the powers to Him, 
— by ceasing from our own works, and doing all to 
Him. It was very simple and obvious, but it went 
home to more than one heart. There were two more 
short addresses, and another hymn was sung, — 

“ Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear.” 

Ida was a little shy of beginning this time, till Mr. 
Weston said, Perhaps the young lady will start the 
tune again,” when she raised her glorious voice once 
more ; and every one joined with a hearty good-will 
refreshing to hear. There was a collect, and then 
the class was dismissed. People lingered for the 
usual neighborly greeting ; and before the first one 
issued from the door, a little dark figure, which had 
been crouched under the window, rose, and sped 
away over the hill. 

Miss Celia and Miss Delia had already called upon 
the new-comers. “They are really our cousins, you 
know, by way of the Rings and Butlers,” they had 


8o OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

saidj in a kind of half apology, when questioned on 
the subject. The two sisters now shook hands with 
Mrs. Van Zandt and the young ladies, and Miss 
Delia remarked that she was glad to see them out. 

“ I never willingly miss such a service,” said Mrs. 
Van Zandt. “I always feel, apart from the enjoy- 
ment, that one owes a duty to such an effort made 
in one’s own neighborhood.” 

** I wish every one felt so,” said Mr. Bassett. “ I 
want to thank this young lady for helping us out in 
the singing.” 

am sure you are very welcome,” replied Ida 
simply. “ I am choir leader in our little mission 
chapel at the Works, so it comes quite natural to 
me. I really did it upon impulse the first time ; but, 
when I came to think, it seemed like ‘ taking on,’ as 
the children say, for a stranger.” 

I don’t think one ever ought to feel like a stran- 
ger in the house of God,” remarked Miss Celia. 
“We are all of one family there, you know, my dear.” 

“That is very true,” said Ida. 

“ Well, Miss Armstrong, I told you we were going 
to have a good time,” said the miller, as he locked 
the door, and gave Miss Armstrong the key ; then, 
as he walked homeward between his wife and Aunt 
Betsy, he added, “ I feel to be thankful that our new 
neighbors turn out to be such good Christian folks, 
ready to take their share in our meeting.” 

“Well, I must say I think they took their full 
share to-night, and a little more,” said Aunt Betsy, 
who had regarded the new-comers with suspicion 
and disfavor. “I don’t think I care about having 


THE MEETING. 


8l 


strangers from the city coming here and setting up 
to teach us, — folks whose fathers and grandfathers 
sat under old Dr. Munson. To see that old lady 
coming to meeting with that thing on her head like 
a heap of beaten-up white of egg ! I’ll be bound she 
would never think of wearing such a thing on Broad- 
way. And that girl with her singing : of course it 
was very fine, but it was far too operatic and theat- 
rical for my taste.” 

“ How many operas and theatrical performances 
did you ever see. Aunt Betsy } ” asked Mrs. Bassett, 
who had a tongue of her own, and did not stand as 
much in awe of the old lady as most of her neigh- 
bors. 

“Come, come!” said Mr. Bassett. “Seems to 
me some of them fowls of the air that picked up the 
good seed in the parable have lit down among us. 
This isn’t the spirit we should be in after such favor 
as has been shown us to-night. I was so glad to see 
Patience Fletcher out. Poor thing ! she looks very 
tired.” 

“ Well, she makes a great deal harder work of life 
than she needs to,” said Mrs. Bassett. “She just 
makes herself a slave to the house and the children ; 
and, after all, she doesn’t do any more for them than 
I do for mine.” 

“ Not as much,” said her husband. 

“ Well, I don’t think she makes things as pleasant, 
if I say it that shouldn’t. I had the twins down to 
spend the afternoon not long ago; and the poor 
things were afraid to make a natural motion, for fear 
of spoiling their clothes, till Myra dressed them up 


82 


OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL HEATERS. 


in some old things of Ben’s and Sally’s. For my 
part, I like to take the comfort of my children, and 
have them take comfort as we go along, instead of 
toiling and slaving to do some grand thing for them 
by and by, when maybe they won’t want it. I guess 
I’ll send up for them again to-morrow : it will take 
them off Faith’s hands, and give her time to learn 
her Sunday-school lesson in peace.” 

** And how about yours ? ” asked Aunt Betsy. ** I 
should think you had enough on your hands now, 
with all them great tearing boys of yours.” 

“ Oh, two or three children more or less don’t mat- 
ter at our house,” answered Mrs. Bassett. “And, 
as to the Sunday-school lessons, Myra and I learn 
ours, and teach the children theirs, on Sunday after- 
noon; then we go over them again Saturday even- 
ing after tea, and so they are all ready for Sunday. 
Good-night, Aunt Betsy. Come down to-morrow, and 
I’ll give you a green-currant pie.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE ENEMY. 

Kit hoped she might reach home and go to bed 
without being missed. She had often played out on 
the hillside till after dark, and no questions had been 
asked as to where she had been. But fate was 
against her — or rather the Devil, acting by one -of 
his most harmful agents, a malicious woman, deter- 
mined neither to be good herself, nor let any one else 
be so if she could help it. Melissa Mallory was not in- 
different to religion, by any means : on the contrary, 
she hated the very name of it. She had not succeeded 
in making herself an absolute unbeliever, though she 
had tried very hard. There always would stay by 
her, hid in some inner recess of her soul, a terrible 
lurking dread, — the conviction, that, after all, there 
was a superior power, a great Being who knew of all 
her sins, and would some day exact a full account of 
them ; and she felt toward this power as the Eastern 
king in the story might be supposed to feel toward 
the lion which he knew was shut up somewhere in 
his palace, and which might break out any day and 
devour him. There were people all about, wherever 

83 


84 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

she went, who professed to be friends with this great 
enemy of hers, to hold intercourse with and receive 
benefits from Him ; and all such persons she held as 
her own foes. Melissa had never loved Kit ; she con- 
sidered her an interloper, taking a share of the com- 
mon funds which she might have enjoyed if Kit had 
not come into the family. Moreover, she was jealous 
of Kit’s undeniable beauty and wit ; and, strange to 
say, of the child’s growing influence over poor Mrs. 
Mallory. Melissa had never loved her step-mother, 
and she was habitually unkind to her, professing to 
believe that half her insanity was affectation, and 
declaring that it might be driven out of her if Sy- 
mantha did not indulge and coddle her so. Mrs. 
Mallory was afraid of Melissa, and always worse 
when left to her care ; but she liked Kit though she 
did not always know her, and, unless when at the 
worst, was usually docile, or at least passive, in her 
hands. Melissa felt this to be a new injury. She 
liked, as Symantha said, to get a handle against the 
child ; and now she flattered herself that she had 
found one. She had suspected Kit’s purpose, had 
watched her go, and seen her return, and was all 
ready to catch her when she came in. 

‘‘ Well, Kit, did you have a good meeting ” 

Phin Mallory had been to Oldbury, and had come 
home in a very bad humor, — a circumstance on 
which Melissa had fully calculated. He was reading 
his newspaper by the light of a very dismal kerosene 
lamp, which burned viciously sideways when he 
turned it up, and smoked sulkily when he turned it 
down, — a circumstance which did not improve his 
temper in the least. 


THE ENEMY. 85 

“ Meeting ! ” said Phin, dropping his paper. “What 
do you mean ? ” 

“ I haven’t been to meeting,” said Kit. 

“ You didn’t go into the house, but you stood and 
listened under the window,” said Melissa. “ You 
needn’t deny it, for I saw you with my own eyes.” 

“ Well, suppose I did : where was the harm } ” said 
Kit boldly, though she trembled as she saw her uncle’s 
eyes fixed on her. “I like to hear the singing. 
There was one of the young ladies at the stone house, 
and she sang beautifully.” 

“Come here,” said Phin sternly. Kit dared not 
disobey. Her uncle took her by the shoulder, and 
shook her till she was giddy, ending with a sharp box 
on the ear. 

“Take that for a sample of what you will get if 
you ever go to that place again,” said he, pushing 
her away. “ I won’t have you go near these people. 
Do you hear } ” 

Kit looked at him with a white face and blazing 
eyes, but did not answer. 

“Just look in her pocket, and see what you will 
find there, pa,” said Melissa with a sneering laugh. 
“ You didi *'■ know what a saint you had in the family. 
See here ! ” 

She caught hold of Kit’s dress as she spoke, and, 
despite her struggles, pulled out her precious Testa- 
ment, which she handed to her father. Phin took it, 
and threw it into the fire. With a cry of anguish Kit 
sprang to rescue her treasure, but only succeeded in 
setting fire to the sleeve of her dress, and burning her 
own hand severely. 


86 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** Serves you right/^ said Phin. ‘‘You let me see 
you have such a book again, and Til put you where 
you won’t see book or school either. I’ve had enough 
of pious folks, without your taking up the dodge, — a 
set of hypocrites who set themselves up above every- 
body else, and look down on their betters. I won’t 
have it. Do you hear } Stop that noise, and answer 
me.” 

Quite beside herself with pain and anger. Kit 
turned on her uncle, and would have returned his blow 
if Symantha had not caught her hand. At that 
moment there came a cry from the inner room, — a 
wail of such despairing anguish as might have come 
from a lost spirit, — “They have taken away my Lord. 
They have taken Him away, and I know not where 
they have laid Him.” 

“ There, now you have done it,” said Symantha 
angrily. “Now we shall have no rest all night, and 
perhaps have the neighbors coming in to see what is 
the matter. — Don’t cry, Kit. Come here, and let me 
do up your hand. — Just see there, father ! ” she added 
indignantly, holding up Kit’s arm for his inspection. 
The hand and wrist were fearfully scorched, and 
already covered with blisters. 

“Why didn’t she mind, then } ” said Phin sullenly. 
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to burn her.” To do him 
justice, he was already ashamed of his outburst. He 
was not usually so ill-natured, but he had had a hard 
time in Oldbury that day. He had, so to say, fought 
for his soul, and lost. 

“ There, don’t cry any more,” said Symantha after 
she had covered the burnt arm thickly with flour, and 


THE ENEMY, 


87 


done it up in cotton. '' I’ll help you to bed. And 
maybe you will get another Testament some time : 
who knows ? Don’t cry if you can help it, that’s a 
good girl : you will make ma worse, and then I shall 
not know what to do.” 

“I’ll do any thing for you, because you are so 
good, and I love you,” said Kit, trying hard to 
restrain her sobs ; “ but I hate Melissa, and I hate 
uncle Phin. So ! ” 

“ Hush, hush ! There, try to go to sleep. Pa will 
be sorry to-morrow. He was dreadfully put out 
when he came home. I’m afraid ” — 

“ Afraid of what ? ” asked Kit, as Symantha 
checked herself. 

“ I’m afraid ma is going to have a dreadful night,” 
answered Symantha hastily. “ There, don’t cry any 
more, but try and lie still, and lay your hand on this 
pillow ; and I hope you will go to sleep. Poor child ! 
it was a bad day for you when you came to us.” 

Kit’s hand was badly burned, and smarted terribly ; 
but her tears, which had full way when Symantha 
left her, were caused more by anguish of heart than 
by bodily pain. She was furious against her uncle 
and Melissa, especially the latter, whom she justly 
considered the cause of all the trouble ; and Kit was 
one of those natures to whom rage was grief. But 
that was not the worst. The little wild girl who had 
so lately set out in the Christian pilgrimage had 
already met with Apollyon in his worst form. 

“ And I was trying so hard to be good ! ” she 
sobbed, talking to herself as lonely, neglected chil- 
dren so often do. “ I was trying so hard to do what 


88 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

I thought He would like ! and Miss Armstrong said 
He would help me, and that old lady said the same 
in the meeting; and He didn’t help me, oh. He 
didn’t help me a bit. He let Melissa tell of me, and 
uncle Phin shake me, and burn my Testament. Oh, 
dear, oh, dear ! what if uncle Phin should be right, 
and there shouldn’t be any such person, after all ? ” 
Kit sobbed anew, and even cried aloud, in the 
anguish of this doubt. The story which had brought 
such light and comfort, such wonderful and glorious 
possibilities, into her dark and sordid life, which had 
added such new beauties to what she loved best, — 
if that story were not true, after all ! 

“Oh, I don’t want to live, I don’t want to live,” 
cried Kit aloud. “ If there isn’t any Lord Jesus, I 
don’t want to live at all.” ' 

“Stop that noise. Kit, or I’ll whip you,” said 
Melissa, opening the door. “ You little fool, to make 
such a fuss about an old book full of silly stories ! ” 
Somehow this appearance and assault of her enemy 
seemed to give Kit a little comfort. Satan is always 
easier to fight when he comes in a bodily shape. 

“ It isn’t a book full of stories : it is the truth, 
and you know it, Melissa Mallory. You know it is 
true. There is a God, and He is my Father ; and, if 
you abuse me. He will punish you. He can see all 
you do. Don’t you dare to touch me ! ” 

And she did not. That something she had never 
dared to search out, and had never been able to 
silence, stirred in her heart. What if it should be 
true, as Kit said.? She contented herself with a 


* A fact. 


THE ENEMY. 


89 


threatening gesture, and withdrew, shutting the door. 
Kit’s sturdy profession of faith had at least com- 
forted herself. Yes, she would believe in Him. If 
He was good, as Miss Armstrong said, perhaps He 
would make some good come out of this trouble, after 
all. Then Kit remembered that she had not said 
her prayers. She rose softly from her bed ; and, 
kneeling down in the bright moonlight, she said her 
little hymn, and as much of the Lord’s Prayer as 
she remembered, for she had not yet learned it quite 
perfectly. There was something in it, she knew, 
about forgiving trespasses. “ That means sins. Miss 
Armstrong said; if we don’t forgive people. He 
won’t forgive us. But, oh, dear ! how can I forgive 
uncle Phin for burning my book ^ And Melissa — it 
was all her fault.” Kit thought a little, and then 
knelt down again. Her prayer was very simple : “ I 
can’t forgive them myself ; but if it is true, what 
teacher says, you can make me. Please do, and help 
me; for I haven’t got any friends only Miss Arm- 
strong.” Kit’s faith was but weak and faltering, 
like that of the poor father, If thou canst do any 
thing, have compassion on us, and help us ;” but the 
same compassionate ear is ready to hear, and the 
same hand to save, now as then. 

Kit lay awake a long time ; but at last the pain in 
her hand grew less, and she fell asleep. She slept 
longer than usual, and when she waked the sun was 
shining into her room. 

“It must be ever so late,” thought Kit. She 
started up, and her first move reminded her of all 
that had happened the night before. 


90 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

How shall I ever get dressed ? ” she thought. 
She made out to put her clothes on ; but to fasten 
them was beyond her power, so she went down to 
find Symantha. 

Symantha was moving softly about the kitchen, 
busy in setting things to rights. She held up her 
finger as Kit opened the door. 

“ Is aunt asleep ? ” asked Kit in a whisper. “ Did 
she have a bad night ? I thought I heard her.” 

‘‘ Yes, she did not go to sleep till sunrise. Pa has 
gone out to the barn to get a nap on the hay, and 
Melissa is not up yet.” 

‘‘Oh, yes, they can all sleep but you; that is 
always the way,” said Kit indignantly. 

“ I’m used to it,’* answered Symantha, smiling 
rather grimly. “ Here’s your coffee hot on the stove, 
and I’ll fry you an egg. How does your hand feel ? ” 

“ It doesn’t smart so much, but it is awful sore,” 
said Kit, wincing as she tried to move it. “ I can’t 
bear to put it down, it hurts so.” 

Symantha found a large handkerchief, with which 
she made a sling for the wounded arm, which she did 
up again in fresh, clean cotton-wool, — the very best 
dressing for a burn. 

“That is more comfortable,” said she. “You 
must be careful not to hurt it or get cold in it, or 
you will have a bad hand.” 

“ Can’t I go to school } ” asked Kit in dismay. 

“ Oh, yes, if you will be careful, and not hurt your- 
self playing. You will be as well off there as here. 
Eat your breakfast or dinner, whichever it is, and 
you will be in good time for afternoon.” 


THE ENEMY, 


91 


Is it as late as that ? asked Kit. Symantha 
pointed to the clock, which stood at half-past eleven. 

‘‘ I never thought it was so late/' said Kit. “ Why 
didn’t you call me } ” 

“ Because you needed the sleep, child. There, eat 
your breakfast while it is hot.” 

Symantha took her sewing, and sat down by Kit 
in the window. 

“ How good you are to me ! ” said Kit gratefully. 
“You do love me, don’t you, Symantha?” 

“Yes, child, I do,” answered Symantha with sud- 
den earnestness. “You are about the only comfort 
I have ; but I love you so much that I should like 
to send you a thousand miles away, where I should 
never see you again, if I could only get you a good 
home by it.” 

“ But I don’t want to go a thousand miles away,” 
said Kit. “ I want to stay with you, and help you, 
for I love you.” 

“Then, Kit, if you love me, promise me one thing,” 
said Symantha. “ Promise me that you won’t let any 
one — pa, or Melissa, or anybody — drive you, or coax 
or bribe you, to do any thing wrong. If you have 
any doubt about the matter, come and ask me.” 

“I won’t,” answered Kit earnestly. “There isn’t 
much danger with Melissa, because I don’t like her 
a bit ; but uncle Phin is real good to me sometimes. 
I don’t see what ailed him last night.” 

“ He was put out about something when he came 
home, and he was vexed about your going to meeting. 
And, Kit, that is a thing you must not do again ; at 
least, not now. Nothing makes father so angry.” 


92 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“I won’t, then,” said Kit; “but I should like to.” 
She was silent a while, and then asked, in a half 
whisper, “Symantha, was it religion that made aunt 
Martha crazy ? ” 

Symantha nodded. 

“ I thought it might be, because she always says 
that'" said Kit. “ How was it ^ ” 

“ She was brought up to be very religious, and to 
go to church, and all that,” replied Symantha in the 
same low tone. “ She was a regular church-member 
when she married pa, and, oh, such a pretty, bright 
creature ! Kit, whatever happens, you must always 
be good to ma. There is more reason for it than 
you know.” 

“I will,” said Kit. “I think she likes me too. But, 
if aunt Martha was such a religious woman, how 
came she to marry uncle Phin ? Wasn’t he the same 
that he is now ? ” 

“Yes, very much the same, so far as that goes; 
only he was not so rough in his ways. He was very 
handsome in those days, and could make himself 
very agreeable; and ma thought she was going to 
influence and convert him, but it worked the other 
way.” 

“ Seems to me I should rather convert a man first, 
and marry him afterward,” said Kit. “And what 
then ? ” 

“ Well, there isn’t much to telL She used to try 
to argue with pa, but she was no match for him that 
way. She used to get vexed, and then he would laugh 
at her. By and by she got to not going to church ; 
and then pa coaxed her to go out riding with him 


THE ENEMY. 


93 


Sundays, and do other things that she thought were 
wrong. After a while she began to be melancholy 
and queer, and at last one day she tried to kill her- 
self. Ever since then she has been as she is now.” 

“ Seems to me it wasn’t her religion that made her 
crazy, so much as losing it,” said Kit shrewdly. 

“ Sometimes I have thought that, myself. It was 
a bad day for her when she got acquainted with our 
family.” 

“What was aunt Martha’s name before she was 
married } ” asked Kit. 

“ I don’t remember,” answered Symantha, getting 
up and going into the pantry. “ Don’t you want to 
run out and see if you can find some fresh eggs } 
If you can. I’ll make ma a custard.” 

“ Why, my dear child, what is the matter } ” said 
Miss Armstrong as Kit made her appearance at 
school with her arm in a sling. “What has hap- 
pened to your hand } ” 

“ I burnt it,” answered Kit, coloring painfully ; for 
she saw the girls looking at her, and felt, as one is 
apt to do at such times, as if they must know all 
about it. 

“ You look hardly fit to come to school,” remarked 
Miss Armstrong kindly. She did not ask how the 
accident happened ; guessing, with the happy instinct 
that belongs to some people, that there was some 
unpleasant story connected with it. “Do you feel 
able to learn your lesson ” 

“Yes, ma’am, I would rather study than not,” 
answered Kit. “ My arm does not hurt me so very 
much now when I keep it still.” 


94 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


Kit was quite sincere in what she said. She felt, 
rather than thought, that the labor of fixing the 
column of words beginning with ‘‘Abase, Abate,’’ 
would be a relief from the tormenting thoughts 
which had driven her almost wild. She set herself 
to work in good earnest to master her lesson. But 
her mind would wander, in spite of herself ; and, when 
she came to recite, she missed two or three times, 
and went down to the very bottom of the class. Kit 
was tired and nervous for want of sleep, and very 
unhappy besides ; the consequence of which was, 
that, as Faith Fletcher went above her, she lost her 
temper, gave Faith a push, and called her by a very 
naughty name. The children looked at each other 
in horror. Miss Armstrong only said, — 

“ Kitty may go and sit down. I will talk to her 
by and by. The children may have a recess.” 

“ Well,” said Selina as soon as they were out of 
doors, “ I hope Miss Armstrong has got enough of 
her favorite. It is lucky for Kit she had not Miss 
Martin to deal with. Wouldn’t she have caught it ! ” 

“ Maybe she will catch it as it is,” remarked Agnes 
Gleason. 

“ I don’t believe Miss Armstrong will do any more 
than talk to her. I am sure I hope not,” said gentle 
Faith. “Poor Kit is half sick : any one can see that 
by looking at her. And it isn’t as if one of us had 
said it. I don’t believe she has ever been taught any 
better.” 

“ Well, for my part, I hope Miss Armstrong will 
send her home,” said Selina : “ she has no business 
here, using such language, and teaching the children 


THE ENEMY. 


95 


it. But, girls, didn’t we have a good meeting last 
night ? I think that old Mrs. Van Zandt is just love- 
ly. Miss Armstrong says she is a great missionary 
woman ; perhaps she will start a society here.” 

“ Then she will do what nobody else has done,” 
remarked Agnes Gleason. “ I remember how hard 
Miss Martin tried. But what does this Mrs. Van 
Zandt do, Selina ? Did Miss Armstrong tell you ? ” 

“ Oh, she is always sending boxes to poor mission- 
aries in the West ; and she keeps two ladies in India, 
and pays all their expenses, — Bible-women, Miss 
Armstrong called them. I wish she would send me. 
I should love to go, dearly.” 

‘*Yes, you would be a fine hand !” said Sarah 
Leet. ** I suppose, the first time a little Chinese or 
African child said a bad word, you would send it 
home, and not let it come to school any more.” 

That would be very different,” said Selina, color- 
ing, as the girls laughed. 

‘‘Yes, very different; having a whole village full 
of children who never learned even the commonest 
decency, and having one poor little thing who is try- 
ing her best to be good,” returned Sarah. “Suppose 
she did forget herself for once : we all do it some- 
times ; if not in one way, then in another. Don’t 
fou ever forget yourself, and say things you ought 
not to ? ” 

“Yes — you — did — you — know — you — did ! ” 
chimed in from the ring of little ones, who were 
“counting out ” for a game of tag. All the girls 
laughed, the words came so pat. 

“Yes, we did, we know we did,” repeated Agnes. 


96 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“ But, Sarah, you need not be so hard on Selina, 
either,’* she added, as Selina walked away. ‘'You 
think she ought to have patience and charity with 
Kit. Why can’t you have a little for her, instead of 
always poking her up ” 

“ Well, she puts on such airs. I like to make her 
show her true colors.” 

“ Yoti don’t always make people show their true 
colors in that way,” remarked Agnes. “ Suppose I 
should slap your face, and make your eye all black 
and blue : would those be your true colors ? ” 

“Well, no, perhaps not,” returned Sarah, whose 
frankness was her most promising trait ; “ but then, 
you know, I don’t pretend to equal St. Agnes.” 
Sarah had read somewhere of a St. Agnes, and liked 
to tease Agnes with the name. 

“ I am not a saint. I wish I were,” replied Agnes, 
coloring. “ But I will tell you one thing, Sarah and 
Faith,” she added, with an evident effort ; “if by a 
saint you mean a true Christian, I am going to try 
and be one. I have been thinking about it a good 
while, and I made up my mind last night.” 

“ Well, I only hope you will stick to it, that’s all,” 
said Sarah, while Faith got hold of Agnes’s hand and 
squeezed it. “ The trouble of these sudden conver- 
sions is, that people don’t hold out.” 

“ Well, I don’t know ; St. Paul held out pretty 
well, and so did St. John.” 

“ Oh, well, they were saints.” 

“What is a saint, anyhow?” asked Faith. “I 
have heard the word all my life, and don’t know, 
really, what it means.” 


THE ENEMY. 97 

** I thought a saint was a person who never did 
any thing wrong,” said Sarah. 

‘‘ Then I am sure none of the apostles were saints, 
for they all did wrong. Let us ask Miss Armstrong 
after reading-class. It will come in easily enough, 
for the lesson is about Polycarp, and he was called a 
saint, I know. Come, there is the bell.” 

Kit’s ill temper, if it deserved so harsh a name, 
found vent in a flood of tears as soon as she reached 
her desk. She expected and half hoped that Miss 
Armstrong would scold her, and perhaps punish her ; 
for bad language was justly looked upon as a griev- 
ous offence. But Miss Armstrong did nothing of the 
kind. She waited till the first violence of the storm 
had spent itself, and then said in that firm, kindly 
tone of hers, which somehow carried obedience with 
it,— 

“ There, Kitty, don’t cry any more : you will only 
make’ yourself worse. Wash your face and hands, 
and then I should like to have you run down to the 
mill, and ask Mr. Bassett to send me some chalk; 
we are quite out. As to this trouble of yours, we 
will talk about it after school. You need not hurry ; 
I will excuse you if you are a little late.” 

“ How good she is ! ” thought Kit, with a feeling 
of absolute wonder, as she bathed her red eyes and 
aching head at the spring which boiled up in a cor- 
ner of the yard. “ Oh, if I could only be good, like 
that!” • 

As she was going out of the yard she met Faith, 
who spoke to her pleasantly. 

“ Where now, Kitty ? Going home ^ ” 


98 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

*^No; Miss Armstrong sent me of an errand.” 
She was passing on when it occurred to her that 
here, at least, was something she might do. She 
called ‘‘Faith ! ” and as Faith turned back she said, 
with a quiver in her voice, “ I am sorry I called you 
that name. It was real mean, for it was not your 
fault that I missed.” 

“ Never mind,” said Faith, kissing her. “ I’m sure 
I don’t bear malice. But, Kitty dear, I wouldn’t say 
such words if I were you.” 

“ I won’t — not if I can help it ; but you don’t 
know how hard it is to be good.” 

“Don’t I !” said Faith. “It is as hard for me as 
any one, I guess. But there, don’t cry,” for Kit’s 
tears were running over once more : “ I’m sure you 
won’t do it again.” 

Kit went on her way with her heart greatly light- 
ened. She found Mr. Bassett busy, as usual, but 
not too busy to lend an ear to her request. 

“ Chalk, eh ? oh, yes ; I’ve got plenty, if I can only 
find it. Let me see. Here’s an apple for you, any- 
how. If we don’t find one thing, we find another, 
you see. Don’t you want this little box to put your 
pencils and things in ? Well, here’s the chalk, finally, 
and plenty of it ; and here is a little paper for you. 
Let me see ; I didn’t see any of your folks at the 
schoolhouse last night.” 

“ No, sir ; I wanted to go, but I knew they wouldn’t 
let me. I did listen under the window, and uncle 
Phin did not like it a bit.” 

“Poor child!” said the miller kindly. “Well, 
well, you must take your troubles to the right place, 


THE ENEMY 


99 


and you will find help somehow. You know that, 
don’t you ?” 

“Yes, sir: I heard Miss Armstrong say so. But 
I must hurry back now, because she will want the 
chalk.” 

“ Poor little young one ! ” repeated Mr. Bassett to 
himself. “ I must talk over her case with ma, and 
see what can be done for her.” 

“Just in time, Kitty,” said Miss Armstrong pleas- 
antly, as Kit entered, somewhat out of breath. 
“ Now, as you cannot very well do sums with your 
left hand, you may take this book, and learn the 
hymn I have marked ; and we will hear you repeat it 
in the reading-class.” 

Kit took the book with pleasure, for she loved 
learning verses. The hymn was the time-honored 
one beginning, — 

“Jesus Christ, my Lord and Saviour, 

Once became a child like me.” 

“I suppose that is so,” thought Kit as she laid 
down the book to repeat the first verse to herself. 
“He was just as old as I am, once; but He never 
would say such words. 

‘All my nature is unholy; 

Pride and passion dwell within.’ 

“Pm sure that is true enough. But I don’t see 
how I am to help it : the more I try, the worse I 
am. I never knew I was half so bad till I began to 
read in the Testament. 


“ ‘ Lord, assist a feeble creature.’ 


100 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


That means me, I am sure. There isn’t any one 
more feeble than I am. ‘Assist’ means ‘help,’ I 
know. Oh, dear! I do wish He would help me.” 
And Kit put her head down on the desk, and cried 
a little. But the tears did not scorch her eyes, like 
the others : they were cool, and seemed to take some 
of the weight off her heart which had lain there 
ever since the night before. 

“Now we will have Kitty’s hymn,” said Miss 
Armstrong as the reading-lesson was finished; “and 
then, if there are any questions to be asked, I shall 
like to hear them.” 

All the girls looked at Kit, some of them expect- 
ing that she would refuse to obey. They were mis- 
taken. Kit repeated her hymn with a somewhat 
unsteady voice, it is true, but without hesitation and 
without a single blunder. Then, with a visible effort, 
she said, — 

“ Please, Miss Armstrong, I am sorry I was so 
naughty in the spelling-class. I won’t do so again.” 

“ That is right, Kitty,” said Miss Armstrong, much 
gratified. “But there is one thing more for you 
to do.” 

“ Please, Miss Armstrong, she did tell me she was 
sorry,” said Faith eagerly. “ She said so in recess.” 

“ So much the better. And you do forgive her. 
Faith, I am sure.” 

“Yes, indeed!” answered Faith heartily. “I 
didn’t mind much about it, anyway. I don’t believe 
she would have done it if she hadn’t felt sick.” 

“That wasn’t any excuse,” said Kit. “ I was just 
as cross as I could be.” 


THE ENEMY. 


lOI 


*‘We will let the matter drop now,” said Miss 
Armstrong. I should like to talk with Kitty a few 
minutes after school. Now, are there any questions 
to be answered t ” 

“Please, Miss Armstrong, what is a saint asked 
Agnes. 

“ Can any one answer that question } ” asked Miss 
Armstrong. “ What is a saint } ” 

“ A very good person ; one that never does any 
thing wrong,” said one of the girls rather doubt- 
fully. 

“That is what I said ; but Faith thought it was not 
right, because the apostles all did wrong things.” 

“ A saint is somebody who pretends to be better 
than other folks,” said Lucinda Hurd, who always 
resented any praise bestowed on another person as 
so much taken from herself. 

“ I think not,” said Miss Armstrong, “ or St. Paul 
would hardly have told the Corinthians that they 
were called to be saints. He would not have told 
them that they were called upon to pretend to be 
better than their neighbors.” 

“Of course not,” said Selina; “but I always 
thought a saint was somebody like the people we 
read about who went and lived in caves and hermit- 
ages, and never married, or had any families, or ate 
any meat.” 

“That will not answer the conditions, either,” re- 
marked Miss Armstrong, “because the Corinthian 
Christians were not called on to do any such thing 
as that.” 

“ I can’t remember that any one in the Bible was 


102 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

called on to do that,” remarked Faith. “ But, Miss 
Armstrong, won’t tell us what a saint is } ” 

“I will tell you what I think,” said Miss Arm- 
strong. “A saint is a person whose life is conse- 
crated to God; that is, given to Him to be His 
entirely. Or, to put it in other words, a saint is one 
who has made up his mind to serve God with all his 
powers of body and mind. Such a person may be 
faulty and imperfect, often stumbling and even fall- 
ing ; but he keeps his purpose always in view. When 
he falls, he confesses his sin, and asks forgiveness, and 
begins again, humbled but not discouraged. When 
he sees a duty, he strives to do it at whatever incon- 
venience or sacrifice to himself. He tries always 
to keep alive in his heart a sense of the presence of 
God and his Saviour, and to see every thing as they 
would see it. That is my idea of a saint.” 

“ But could any one be like that ? ” asked Faith 
doubtfully. 

‘‘ I can do all things through Christ which strength- 
eneth me” (Phil. iv. 13), quoted Miss Armstrong. 
“There is the secret, depend upon it. Now we must 
not talk any longer. Take this matter home, and 
think about it.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SPRINGING GRAIN. 

‘‘Now, Kitty, let us get at the bottom of all this 
trouble of ours,” said Miss Armstrong. “Agnes, 
do you wish to see me } ” 

“ Yes, please. Miss Armstrong. But I will wait : I 
haven’t so far to go as Kit has. Or I don’t know 
why I should mind speaking before her,” said Agnes, 
coloring. “ It isn’t any thing I need be ashamed of. 
I have made up my mind to try to be a real Chris- 
tian, Miss Armstrong. I don’t know whether I shall 
have strength to persevere, but I am going to begin.” 

“You will surely have strength to persevere if you 
only look in the right place for it, my dear child,” 
said Miss Armstrong, kissing her. “You don’t know 
how glad I am to hear you say this, Agnes. Tell 
me, when did you make up your mind .? ” 

“Last night, after I went home. I have been 
thinking a great deal about the matter lately, and 
somehow what that old lady said seemed to bring me 
right to the point. I seemed to realize that the Lord 
died for me, just as much as if there had been no one 
else to die for; and I couldn’t hold out after that.” 

103 


104 OLDHAM ; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

*‘You were led to see the truth, and the truth has 
made you free,” said Miss Armstrong. ‘‘ He did die 
for you, and for me, and for little Kitty here, just as 
much as if there had been no one else to die for ; and 
He loves us as much as if He had no one else to love. 
Have you told your mother, Agnes ? ” 

“ No, ma’am ; I am going to tell her to-night. Ma 
isn’t a church-member herself, but I think she will 
be glad. She always wants me to go to church and 
Sunday school, and she never would let me go walk- 
ing on Sundays with Milly Richmond. Oh, dear ! I 
wish the Richmonds were not coming.” 

'‘Don’t borrow trouble, dear child. Trust your 
best Friend to do what is best for you, and make all 
things work together for your good. I will talk with 
you again as soon as I can. Good-night.” 

" Who do you mean by Agnes’s best friend ? ” 
asked Kit, as Agnes left the room. 

"Her Father' in heaven, and her Saviour,” an- 
swered Miss Armstrong ; " you know I told you that 
before, Kitty.” 

" Well,” said Kit with a deep sigh, " I wish He 
was my friend, that’s all ; but I don’t think He is.” 

" Why not, my poor child ? ” 

"If He had been. He wouldn’t have let Melissa 
put uncle Phin up to shake me, and burn my book, 
all because — I” — The recital of her wrongs was 
too much for poor Kit, and she burst into a fresh 
agony of crying. Miss Armstrong took her on her 
lap, pressed the hot head against her bosom, and by 
and by began gently to soothe and check the out- 
burst. 


THE SPRINGING GRAIN. 


105 


‘‘Tell me all about it,” said she when Kit was quiet 
enough to speak. Kit sobbed out the story of her 
wrongs. 

“And you think He does not love you, because He 
lets you have trouble ? My dear, that is a great mis- 
take. He has never promised us freedom from trouble 
in this world : on the contrary. He has expressly said, 
‘In the world ye shall have tribulation.’ But He 
adds in the same breath, ‘ Be of good cheer ; I have 
overcome the world.’ He says in another place that 
He sends us trouble, or lets trouble come, to make 
us more fit for heaven, just as the kindest parents 
sometimes punish their children.” 

“Then I don’t see how Christians are any better 
off than other folks, after all,” said Kit, “if they 
have troubles just the same.” 

“ They don’t have them jicst the same, Kitty. It 
is not just the same whether a child is a slave, and 
beaten by a cruel master, or whether it is punished 
to cure it of its faults by a kind and loving father.” 

“That is so,” answered Kit. 

“ And there is another thing about it,” continued 
Miss Armstrong. “Suppose I should say to you, 
‘ Kitty, if you will bear all your troubles patiently, 
and do your work as well as you can for one week, 
then I will take you home to live with me, and be 
happy all the rest of your life,’ would the time seem 
long or hard to you then ? ” 

“ No, indeed !” 'said Kit, with kindling eyes. “I 
would work my fingers to the bone, and never say a 
word, whatever happened.” 

“ Well, that is the way our Father treats his chil- 


I06 OLDHAM I OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

dren. He lets them have plenty of trouble and sor- 
row here, — sometimes it seems as if the best people 
had the most of it, — but He promises them a home 
with Him in heaven, where they shall never know 
any pain and grief, but be happy and holy for ever 
and ever. Just think ! when we look back on our 
present life, after we have been in that blessed place 
a million years, it will not look very long or very 
hard to us.”‘ 

“No, indeed!’’ said Kit, drawing a long breath. 
“A million years without any trouble ; happy all 
the time ! It just takes my breath away.” 

“ And then to be no nearer the end than before,” 
said Miss Armstrong. “I used to hear an old hymn 
sung, of which this was the last verse, — 

“‘When IVe been there ten thousand days, 

Bright shining as the sun, 

I’ve just as long to sing God’s praise 
As though I’d just begun.’ ” 

“Yes, it is nice for you, and I am glad you are 
going there,” said Kit, her face darkening again ; 
“but it won’t do me any good. / shall never get 
there, I know.” 

“ And why not, my little girl .? ” 

“ I shall never be good enough,” answered Kit. 
“ I have tried and tried to be good. Every morning 
since I came to school I have said to myself, ‘Now, 
I won’t do one wrong thing to-day ; ’ and I do all 
the time. And, if I don’t act wrong things, I think 
them. I never can be like what it says in the Tes- 
tament, — like what He was.” 


THE SPRINGING GRAIN 


107 


** Poor Kitty ! I don’t wonder you are discouraged. 
Why, my child, if people were to be saved by their 
own goodness, there would not be one in paradise at 
this minute. It is because Christ died for us, that 
we are saved ; because He bore our sins for us 
when He was nailed to the cross ; because He died 
for us, and rose from the dead for us, and pleads for 
us at the right hand of God. We are not to be 
saved because we are good, but we are to be good 
because we are saved.” 

Kit’s face brightened a little. “ I don’t quite un- 
derstand,” said she. 

“ It is just this, Kitty : you have not to earn eter- 
nal happiness. You never could do that, and you 
have no need to try. The Lord Jesus has done 
that for you. He bore the punishment of all our 
sins when He was here on earth ; and what we have 
to do is, to believe that He has done so, to put our 
trust in Him, and give ourselves to Him to be His. 
See what the Bible says about it : ‘ God so loved 
the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that 
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but 
have everlasting life’ (St. John iii. 16) ; ‘God corn- 
men deth His love toward us, in that, while we were 
yet sinners, Christ died for us’ (Rom. v. 8); ‘He 
that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life’ 
(St. John iii. 36).” 

“ Then all the goodness is in believing,” said Kit. 

“ Not at all, my dear. There is no more goodness 
in believing than in any thing else ; but we shall not 
ask Him to save us unless we believe He can do it. 
Just so, you might be drowning, and some one might 


I08 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

throw you a rope : unless you believed that the 
rope would save you, you would not take hold of it ; 
and yet there would be no goodness in taking hold 
of it.” 

I see now ! ” exclaimed Kit : “just as there might 
be a doctor in Oldbury who could cure aunt Martha ; 
but unless uncle Phin believed it, and went after him, 
he would be of no use to her. But, Miss Armstrong, 
will God save me like that asked Kit with a tone 
of deep reverence, and a far-off look in her great 
blue eyes. “Will He do all that just because I ask 
Him, — a poor little naughty, ignorant girl, like me, 
that don’t know any thing about Him hardly It 
seems too good to be true.” 

“It is not one bit too good to be true. You have 
only to ask Him, and the work is done, now and 
forever.” 

“ And won’t I ever do any thing wrong again ? ” 

“ I cannot say that, Kitty. As long as we are in 
the world, we have to fight with temptations from 
without, and with the sinful nature that is born in 
us. But, if we are faithful in asking, He will give 
us strength to conquer ; and, if we do fall into sin. 
He will help us out. ‘ If we confess our sins. He is 
faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse 
us from all unrighteousness’ (i John i. 9). He not 
only forgives us our sins, but He washes them away, 
and makes them as if they had never been. Only 
God can do that.” 

“ I can see that,” said Kit. “ Men can’t make the 
least thing to be as if it had never been, if they are 
ever so sorry about it.” She sat still a moment, and 


THE SPRINGING GRAIN 


109 


then turned to her friend with a great light shining 
in her sweet face. 

“Well, then, Miss Armstrong, I don’t see but I 
am saved, after all ; because I do want Him to save 
me, and I do believe He can.” 

“Then you certainly are, my precious child,” said 
Miss Armstrong, her own eyes overflowing. “Let 
us thank Him, Kitty, for all His goodness.” 

About an hour after this conversation, two young 
ladies, walking over the hill, came to Kit’s favorite 
haunt, and stood still in admiration at the picture 
presented to them. Kit was lying on the ground, 
her head pillowed on the mossy flat stone which was 
her favorite seat, fast asleep. Her hat lay on the 
grass beside her, her long dark lashes rested on her 
cheeks, and the soft summer wind was gently play- 
ing with her black curls, as if it feared to wake her. 
It almost seemed from her attitude that she had 
been kneeling by the stone, and had sunk down over- 
powered with sleep. 

“ What an exquisite picture ! ” whispered Amity. 
“What a pity Percy is not here with her sketch- 
book.” 

“It is lovely,” answered Ida in the same tone. 
“ But she ought not to lie there : she will take cold. 
Her hand is hurt too. Poor little dear, I wonder 
who she is. I am sure I don’t know her, and yet it 
seems as if I had seen her before.” 

“I was just thinking the same. But we must not 
leave her here. She might sleep till dark, and awake 
frightened out of her senses, and with rheumatic 
fever into the bargain.” 


no OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

As Amity spoke, she bent down and kissed the 
little sleeper. Kit awoke, and started to her feet 
with a little cry of pain, as the sudden movement 
shook her burned hand. 

“My poor child, did you hurt yourself.^” said 
Amity kindly. “ I am sorry I gave you such a start. 
I only meant to wake you, and keep you from get- 
ting cold. What ails your arm } ” 

“ I burned it ; but it is not very bad now, only I 
twisted it a little, getting up,” answered Kit. “I 
can’t think how I came to go to sleep, only I was so 
tired. Ain’t you the lady that sung at the meeting 
last night ? ” she ventured to ask shyly. 

“Yes, my dear. Were you there ? ” 

“ No, ma’am ; but I stood under the window and 
listened. Uncle won’t let me go to meeting. He 
don’t believe in God or any such thing.” 

“And don’t you believe in Him ? ” 

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” answered Kit, with a quiet 
decision which made Ida and Amity exchange 
glances. “I feel as though I had got to believe 
in Him ; for He’s all the friend I’ve got, only Miss 
Armstrong and Symantha.” 

“ He is the best you could have. What is your 
name } ” 

“ Kit Mallory, ma’am ; at least, that is what every 
one calls me, only Miss Armstrong calls me Kitty.” 

“Well, Kitty, can you direct us a short way to 
Mrs. Van Zandt’s house } We have walked farther 
than we meant, and are both tired.” 

“You are near by now,” said Kit; “you can see 
the house when you are past this ledge, and I’ll 


THE SPRINGING GRAIN. 


Ill 


show you a cow-path that goes close by the barn. 
Wouldn’t you like a drink?” she added; “this is 
real nice water, and I’ve got a cup I keep here.” 

“Thank you, that will be very refreshing,” said 
Amity. Kit produced her cup, washed it in the 
stream, and filled it at the spring-head. Both the 
girls drank, and praised the cool, sweet draught. 

“What a lovely spring!” said Amity, bending 
down to look into its depths. 

“ It has great bubbles in it,” said Kit. “ If you 
watch, you will see one presently. There ! isn’t that 
pretty ? ” 

“ It is, indeed,” said Amity. “ Look, Ida.” 

“ I see,” replied Ida, bending down in her turn. 
“I see, too, that the sun is getting low, and aunt 
Barbara will be uneasy about us. So this is the 
way, is it ? ” 

“Yes, ma’am. Keep in the path, and you won’t 
get into any of the soft places.” 

“Thank you, my dear. Good-night.” 

As Kit bent over the spring to dip a cup of water 
for herself, she saw something red and golden lying 
under the great tuft of lady-fern which partly over- 
hung the water. She picked it up. It was a beauti- 
fully bound little book, bearing marks of a great deal 
of careful wear ; and, on opening it. Kit saw that it 
was a New Testament. 

Her heart gave a great bound at the sight. She 
had been asking for a Testament before she went to 
sleep, and here it was. Then came another thought. 
One of the young ladies must have dropped it. Kit 
could read writing. She turned to the fly-leaf, and 


1 12 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

read, written in a clear though somewhat tremulous 
hand, — 

“Amity, with mother’s love, on her tenth birth- 
day.” 

Underneath was written, in another hand, “The 
very day my dear mother died.” 

“It is that plain young lady’s, the one they say 
is so rich,” thought Kit. “ Well, she can buy plenty 
more, and I haven’t any. But then she must think 
every thing of it, because her mother gave it to her. 
Oh, dear ! I wish I knew what to do. It does seem 
as though I ought to have it.” 

Just then something seemed to whisper in Kit’s 
ear a verse she had read in her own Testament only 
the day before, — “ Whatsoever ye would that men 
should do to you, do ye even so to them.” 

said that,” said Kit, speaking aloud. “Sup- 
pose I had a Testament that mother gave me, and I 
should lose it, and some one should find it.” 

Kit did not hesitate another moment. She ran 
down the hill as fast as she could, and overtook the 
young ladies just at their own gate. 

“ Why, here is our little friend again,” said Amity. 
“ My dear child, how you have put yourself out of 
breath ! ” 

“ Isn’t this yours ? ” asked Kit, producing the book. 
“I found it down by the spring.” 

“ It is, indeed ! ” replied Amity. “ My dear child, 
how can I thank you enough } I would rather have 
lost almost any thing else that I possess.” 

“ I thought you would be sorry to lose it, because 
it had your mother’s writing in it,” said Kit, feeling 


THE SPRINGING GRAIN. 


II3 

very happy as Amity kissed her. I know, if I had 
a Testament that my mother gave me, how much I 
would think of it. But I must hurry home.” 

Wait a minute,” said Amity. Kitty, I want to 
give you something, not as a reward, but as a keep- 
sake. What shall it be } ” 

Kit’s carnation cheeks grew more beautiful than 
ever, between eagerness and bashfulness. 

If it wouldn’t be impudent to ask, if you had a 
little old Testament you could give me,” she said. 

‘‘ Would you rather have a little one than a large 
one } ” asked Amity. 

“ Yes, because I could hide it easier.” 

“Wait just a moment,” said Amity. “So she has 
to hide her Testament,” she remarked to Ida as they 
went into the house. 

“They are a dreadfully hard family, from all I 
hear,” answered Ida. “One of aunt Barbara’s soft- 
covered Testaments will be just the thing for her.” 

Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt was sitting by the parlor 
window, hemming a napkin with an exquisite over- 
hand hem. She was almost always hemming nap- 
kins when she was not buying them or packing them 
in neat parcels to send away, and she had brought 
abundance of her favorite fancy-work with her to the 
country. 

“ You are late,” said she as the girls entered. “ I 
began to think you were lost.” 

“So we were,” said Ida; “and I don’t know 
where we should have landed, only for a little girl — 
such an odd, lovely child! — whom we found asleep 
on the hill-top.” 


1 14 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

'' And, aunt Barbara, will you give me one of your 
nice Testaments for her ? ” added Amity. “ She 
says she would rather have a little Testament than 
any thing ; but it must be a small one, because she 
has to hide it.” 

Aunt Barbara rose with alacrity. Poor child, how 
sad! Yes, I have just the thing for her. In that 
cupboard by the fireplace. Amity. No, not that ; the 
one with soft covers. Where is the child ? ” 

‘‘Out by the door,” answered Amity. “She says 
she dare not come in. Do come and look at her, 
aunt Barbara, and tell us who she is like.” 

“ So you are the little girl who would rather have 
a Testament than any thing,” said Mrs. Van Zandt 
in those peculiar deep, soft tones of hers. “Well, 
here is a nice one for you. Look up, my dear.” 

“Who is she like, aunt.^” asked Ida. “I can’t 
think, and I am sure I have seen that face before.” 

“Do you remember the picture which hangs in 
my sewing-room at home .^” asked Mrs. Van Zandt. 
“ She is the living image of my poor lost Kathleen 
Joyce.” 

“ Please, ma’am, would you say that name again ? ” 
asked Kit, trembling with eagerness. 

“Kathleen Joyce,” repeated Mrs. Van Zandt. 
“ Did you ever hear the name before ? ” 

“ That was my name I That was it ! ” exclaimed 
Kit exultingly. “ Kathleen, that is it I I knew it 
was not Keturah, I knew it wasn’t.” 

“ Kathleen .? Kathleen what ? ” asked Mrs. Van 
Zandt as eagerly as herself, 

“ I don’t know. I mustn’t stay another minute,” 


THE SPRINGING GRAIN. II5 

said Kit in a tone of alarm as the clock struck. ‘‘ I 
forgot uncle Phin told me never to come here.” 

“Don’t keep her, Mrs. Van Zandt,” said Aggy, an 
elderly colored woman who had taken care of the 
house for years, speaking in an undertone. “ He is 
an awful man, and there is no telling what he might 
do.” 

“Well, good-night, dear child. Perhaps we shall 
meet again. I must see her somehow,” added Mrs. 
Van Zandt, looking after Kit as she hurried away. 
“If she is not Kathleen Joyce’s child, there is noth- 
ing in resemblances. 

“ And she said her name was Kathleen,” observed 
Ida. “ How strange ! ” 

“I wonder if this man is really her uncle,” said 
Amity. 

“ Melissa Mallory says not,” replied Aggy. “ She 
says her father took Kit from the poorhouse, but 
there is no telling any thing by that. — Miss Ida, do 
come in out of the dew, and let your aunt get her tea. 
She’ll be having one of her headaches again, and 
your hand will be paining you all night.” 

“Kathleen, Kathleen,” repeated Mrs. Van Zandt 
as she sat down to the table. “ I must contrive to 
see that child again.” 


CHAPTER VIIL 

THE SNAKES. 

“Where is Miss Armstrong ? ” asked Mrs. Weston, 
as Selina came home alone. 

“ I suppose she will be here presently,” answered 
Selina. “ Kit Mallory was naughty, and she kept her 
after school. I would never do that : I would whip 
them, and let them go. I wouldn’t punish myself 
too.” 

“That would be very well if one thought only of 
one’s own convenience,” remarked Mrs. Weston, 
“but I imagine that is not Miss Armstrong’s way. 
What did Kit do ? ” 

“ She called Faith Fletcher bad names because 
Faith went above her in spelling. I hope Miss Arm- 
strong will have enough of her, that’s all.” 

Mrs. Weston gave Selina a look which checked 
her, before she said, “ Poor Kit needs to have allow- 
ance made for her. She has had very few advantages. 
But you may set the table, Selina ; I dare say Miss 
Armstrong will not be long.” 

Selina had not really meant to tell an untruth, 
— that is to say, she had not deliberately said to 

ii6 


THE SNAKES. 


II7 

herself that she would tell a lie : that is something 
which people seldom do, — nor had she told a lie in 
direct words. It was in consequence of her naughti- 
ness that Kit had staid after school. But Selina was 
under the dominion of what might be called her ruling 
passion, — a passion which makes people do as mean 
things as any which belongs to humanity : she was 
jealous. She had taken a great liking to Miss Arm- 
strong when that lady- first came, and had said to 
herself, that, as Miss Armstrong boarded at her 
father’s house, she (Selina) would see more of her 
than any one else, and would therefore be the teach- 
er’s particular friend. Now, there was no harm in 
Selina’s wishing the teacher to like her ; the trouble 
was, that she did not want Miss Armstrong to like 
any one else. This passion of jealousy had been the 
bane of Selina’s life. Mr. and Mrs. Weston had 
another adopted daughter, who had married and gone 
to live in Oldbury about a year before our story 
begins. Elizabeth had never been any thing but kind 
to Selina from the first day of her coming into the 
house, a rather forlorn little girl of ten years old. 
It had not given her a single pang when she was 
told of Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s determination to adopt 
another child : on the contrary, she was glad that 
some one else should have the same happy home as 
herself. And when Selina was brought from the 
Oldbury orphan-asylum, the only home she could 
remember, Elizabeth, then a womanly girl of sixteen, 
had done her best to make her feel contented. But 
no kindness can make a jealous person happy. In 
the asylum Selina had always watched the other chil- 


Il8 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

dren’s meals, to see whether some one had not a 
larger bit of butter, a fatter doughnut, a redder apple, 
than herself ; and she brought the same spirit into her 
new home. She soon became quite sure that mother 
loved Lizzy the best, all because Lizzy had curly 
hair and red cheeks. Lizzy had a new summer frock, 
while hers was mother’s last summer’s dress made 
over; Lizzy had mother’s beautiful gray merino made 
over for winter, while she had a woollen plaid out of 
the store at the Corners : and one was just as much 
a»grievance as the other. She was glad when Lizzy 
married and went away ; but now Lizzy had a boy 
baby which was named after Mr. Weston, and Selina 
was quite sure that father and mother would never 
care for her again. Miss Armstrong had been very 
kind to her, that she must needs allow; but then, she 
had been just as kind to all the others, and Selina 
was quite sure that she liked Agnes Gleason’s reading 
the best. That was always the way, she said to her- 
self with a sigh. It was her fate, and she must bear 
it. Some time, perhaps, she would find some one 
who would love her best of all. 

So you had a case of discipline,” remarked Mrs. 
Weston as the family sat down to the tea-table. 

*‘I thought you’d find it wasn’t all such plain 
sailing,” said Aunt Betsy Burr, who had happened in 
to borrow a cup of maple molasses. Aunt Betsy’s 
errands generally did bring her to her neighbors 
about meal-times. There’s some dreadful bad chil- 
dren about here. Those Bassett boys yelled right 
in front of my door last night when they were com- 
ing home from hoeing potatoes up to the hill farm.” 


THE SNAKES. 


1 19 

“ It was not a case of discipline, though it might 
have been if the culprit had not put discipline out 
of the question by her own act,’* replied Miss Arm- 
strong. The poor child did forget herself ; but she 
acknowledged her fault, and asked pardon before the 
whole school, and that of her own motion. There 
was no room for discipline after that. I did keep 
her, but it was to comfort and help her a little. She 
has burned her hand badly, and was feeling very 
unhappy over the loss of an old Testament she had 
found somewhere.” 

Mrs. Weston looked at Selina, who looked at her 
plate. 

I am sorry for that child. I think she has hard 
times,” said Mr. Weston. *‘I met Phin Mallory at 
Oldbury yesterday, and he told me he was going to 
make a fuss at the next school-meeting about having 
the Bible read in school.” 

And what did you say ? ” asked his wife. 

‘‘ Well, I tried to reason with him at first ; but I 
found there was no use in that, so I told him to make 
all the fuss he wanted to.” 

“I don’t know, though,” said Aunt Betsy. *‘I 
ain’t sure it is lawful to take up the time of the 
scholars with Bible lessons.” 

Miss Armstrong only smiled. 

^‘And so poor Kit has lost her Testament,” re- 
marked Mr. Weston. Well, we must try to let her 
,have another. Does she think so much of it as all 
that ? ” 

‘‘She does, indeed,” answered Miss Armstrong. 
“ I have never met any one who seemed to have a 


120 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


greater craving for the truth. I believe that child 
is going to grow up a true Christian in spite of her 
adverse circumstances.” 

“ I should think she took a queer way to show it, 
— calling the other girls names,” said Aunt Betsy. 
“For my part, I don’t believe she will ever be any 
thing but a regular little reprobate.” 

“ Who is calling names now. Aunt Betsy } ” asked 
Mr. Weston, smiling. 

Aunt Betsy, maintained a dignified silence, and 
betook herself to the consumption of canned cher- 
ries as if that were the only object in life worthy 
her notice. 

“The truth often finds readier entrance into such 
a heart as Kit’s than into one which had heard the 
gospel preached, and remained closed against it,” 
remarked Miss Armstrong ; “ at least, that has been 
the result of my observation both with the heathen 
and among the mission children in the city.” 

“You are right,” said Mr. Weston. “The hard- 
est sinners to melt are gospel-hardened sinners. I 
thought a good many people seemed touched last 
night. The Jewsbury girls were very attentive, I 
observed, and so was Agnes Gleason. That is 
another child I feel great interest in.” 

“I must not violate confidence, but I may just say 
I have reason to hope we may hear good news of 
Agnes,” said Miss Armstrong, smiling. “I had a 
nice little talk with her, which was another thing 
that kept me.” 

“ Well, I hope her mother won’t put no stum- 
bling-blocks in her way if she really is trying to 


THE SNAKES. 


I2I 


•be a Christian, that’s all,” remarked Aunt Betsy. 
“Almira is a dreadful worldly woman, and always 
was. The way she nips into church on Sunday with 
that black silk dress of hers, and brushes off the 
seat before she sits down ! You needn’t laugh, 
Abby. I’ve seen her do it with my own eyes, so 
there ! ” 

“ I don’t so much blame her for that,” said Mrs. 
Weston. “ I never go into the building, that I don’t 
want to go to house-cleaning.” 

“ Wouldn’t it be fun to make a becy and clean the 
church before the new minister comes } ” said Selina. 
“ We might do it next week.” 

“ I declare, daughter, that is an excellent idea,” 
said Mrs. Weston. “ It wouldn’t be such a very 
great piece of work if we all took hold of it. — What 
do you say, father } ” 

“ I agree with all my heart,” answered Mr. Wes- 
ton. “ I don’t believe the place has had a thorough 
cleaning in twelve years, and it is longer than that 
since the old house was painted. How long is it. 
Aunt Betsy } ” 

“Twenty-five years this coming July,” answered 
Aunt Betsy. “ Don’t you remember, it was the year 
old Dr. Munson died. He was a man ! It will be 
a long time before we have any one to fill his pulpit. 
This Mr. Brace isn’t going to do it. Why, Dr. Mun- 
son’s folks were among the first settlers of Oldfield 
County.” 

“Well, if you come to that, Mr. Brace’s great- 
grandfather was one of the first settlers of River- 
mouth County,” said Mr. Weston. “You may find his 


122 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

name in Barber’s ‘ Historical Collections.’ Though, 
as he is to preach, and not his great-grandfather, I 
don’t see what difference it makes.” 

Well, anyhow, he ain’t going to fill Dr. Munson’s 
pulpit,” persisted Aunt Betsy. “Just hear him read 
the lessons ! And he sings himself, for I saw him.” 

“ And I heard him, and thought he had a very fine 
voice. Why shouldn’t he sing, as well as any one 
else ? ” 

“ Dr. Munson never did. I remember him as if I 
had seen him yesterday.” 

“Dr. Munson was a fine man, no doubt; but he 
has been dead and buried this many a year, and I 
only wish his ghost did not walk,” said Mrs. Weston. 
“ Every time we have a new minister, somebody com- 
pares him with old Dr. Munson, and says he never 
will fill Dr. Munson’s pulpit.” 

“ If Dr. Munson wanted to keep the pulpit himself, 
he should have taken it away with him,” said Selina 
rather pertly. 

“I don’t believe he did,” said her father. “He 
was by far too good and too humble-minded to wish 
to remain a standard for the measurement of all who 
should come after him. — But, as to this plan of the 
child’s, mother, you talk it up with the women, and 
I’ll do the same with the men ; and we’ll see what 
can be done.” 

Selina went to her room in a comfortable frame of 
mind. She had escaped the blame which she had 
expected, and she had been commended for her idea 
of cleaning the church, and might expect still more 
praise, for her mother would be sure to say it was 


THE SNAKES. 


123 


Selina’s notion in the first place. Her self-compla- 
cency began to sink a little as she heard her mother 
coming up stairs, and remembered how she had mis- 
represented the matter of Kit's staying after school. 

‘‘ Now mother Weston will be coming to talk to 
me,” she said to herself. She had a great dread of 
these talksy which always left her feeling very small 
in her own eyes. But mother Weston had no such 
intention this night. She began to think there was 
no use in talking to Selina : so, like Christian in the 
dark valley, she betook herself to another weapon, 
called All-prayer, which was very familiar to her hand, 
as it is, thank God ! to the hands of most Christian 
mothers. Selina was destined to hear of her fault 
from another quarter. 

“Selina, how did Mrs. Burr know about Kitty’s 
fault yesterday.^” asked Miss Armstrong as they 
met on the way to school next morning. Selina had 
not been without her fears on this point, and she 
had set out before Miss Armstrong by a different 
route expressly to escape this interview ; but, as so 
often happens when we try to avoid a person, she 
came plump upon her about a quarter of a mile from 
the schoolhouse. 

“ Oh, Aunt Betsy — every one calls her Aunt 
Betsy about here — she hears every thing ! ” an- 
swered Selina with assumed carelessness. “And 
she thinks all young people are dreadful. You heard 
what she said about the Bassett boys, and they are 
forever doing things for her.” 

“Yes, I heard; but that is not the point,” said 
Miss Armstrong, seeing Selina’s object, but not to 


124 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

be diverted from her purpose. Your mother, too, 
spoke of a case of discipline. What did you say 
about it ^ ” 

“ I am sure I don’t remember,” answered Selina. 

Mother asked me where you were, and I said you 
had staid after school with Kit Mallory. Then she 
asked what Kit had done, and I told her. I did not 
see that Aunt Betsy was there, or I should not have 
said it. Why, Miss Armstrong, don’t you want me to 
tell mother what happens in school ? ” asked Selina, 
thinking she saw a way of getting out of it,” as 
she said. I always do tell mother every thing.” 

“And you are careful to tell her every thing just 
exactly as it happens, of course,” said Miss Arm- 
strong, with a look which made Selina feel that she 
was seen through. “For instance, you told her last 
night that Kit had of her own accord confessed her 
fault, and made all the amends possible, before I said 
a word to her on the subject.” 

“ I didn’t say any thing but what was true,” said 
Selina somewhat sullenly. 

“Yes, but did you tell all the truth? It is possible 
to deceive even by silence ; and it is the deception 
that makes the lie, you know, my dear.” 

“ I will thank you not to call me a liar, Miss Arm- 
strong,” said Selina, feeling that she was in a tight 
place, and trying to get out of it by means of a fit 
of virtuous indignation. “ That is what nobody ever 
did ; and I am not going to stand it, even from you.’* 

“ I have not called you a liar, Selina, as you know 
very well. What your own conscience tells you, is 
another matter. Only remember this, that, while I 


THE SNAKES. 


125 


make no objection to your telling your mother every 
thing that concerns yourself, I shall be very much 
displeased if I hear of any gossip outside about 
matters that go on in school.” 

With these words Miss Armstrong went into the 
schoolhouse, leaving Selina very angry with the 
teacher, herself, and all the world. There is nothing 
so exasperating as an accusing conscience when one 
is determined not to listen to it. Selina had no 
mind either to join Miss Armstrong in the school- 
house, or to be left to the company of her own 
thoughts ; and, seeing the Fletcher children coming 
down the road in company with Myra Bassett, she 
went to meet them. 

“ Why, Myra, are you coming to school ” she 
asked in surprise, for Myra was a grown-up girl, and 
had been to boarding-school in Oldbury. 

“ Well, no ; at least, I am not going to begin Sat- 
urday morning, though I am not sure I should not 
do it if ma could spare me,” answered Myra, smiling. 

have taken a great liking to your Miss Armstrong. 
I think you are greatly favored in having her for a 
teacher.” 

I guess we all think so, don’t we, Selina } ” said 
Faith. 

Of course, though I don’t see any thing so very 
wonderful about her,” answered Selina. “ But all 
new brooms sweep clean, with some people.” 

“Why, what is the matter now.?” asked Sarah 
Leet. “ I am sure you began with thinking her a 
regular tarragotiy as poor James Davis says. What 
has she done to you .? ” 


126 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** I did not say she had done any thing to me/’ 
answered Selina somewhat angrily. “I can have 
my own opinion, I suppose. I haven’t any fault to 
find with Miss Armstrong, only I do think she makes 
a ridiculous fuss over that little Kit Mallory.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Sarah in a tone which implied, “ Now 
I understand.” 

I don’t see that she makes any great fuss over 
her,” said literal Faith. ‘‘Of course we all feel 
interested in Kit. I don’t know how any one could 
help it, seeing how hard she tries to be good. Wasn’t 
it sweet to hear her ask pardon in the class, as she 
did yesterday ? ” 

“ Oh, very sweet,” answered Selina with what she 
meant to be a tone of sarcasm, but which was, in 
fact, an ill-natured sneer. “ She thought she was 
going to get a whipping, and took that way to get 
out of it, and get round Miss Armstrong.” 

“ Well, I don’t believe that,” said Agnes Gleason, 
who had joined the group in time to hear the remark. 
“ In the first place. Kit gets too many whippings to 
care very much about them ; and, in the second place, 
she couldn’t possibly know that she would get out of 
it in that way. I believe she really was sorry, and 
said so.” 

“ I think so too,” returned Faith. 

“ And so do I,” said Sarah. “ But, Agnes, I didn’t 
expect to see you so early, or looking so happy.” 

“ Why not Oh, I know : because the Richmonds 
have come. Well, mother says I shall not be hin- 
dered as I was last summer. She told Mrs. Rich- 
mond last night that she and Milly must get up to 


THE SNAKES. 


127 


breakfast with us at half-past seven, as she could 
not keep me at home to cook a second breakfast. 
Wasn’t I glad ! ” 

“ And what did Mrs. Richmond say t ” 

‘‘ Oh, she didn’t like it at first, and talked about 
finding another boarding-place ; and mother told her 
she could do as she pleased about that. I don’t 
think she would be very sorry if they did go, only 
we all like poor Cordelia.” 

“ And is poor Cordelia to get up at half-past seven 
too ? ” asked Selina. “ That is rather hard, I think, 
considering what bad nights she has.” 

Of course not,” replied Agnes with some indig- 
nation in her tone. ** Cordelia always has her break- 
fast in bed, and never takes any thing anyway but 
a cup of tea and a bit of bread or toast. That is a 
very different thing from getting a second hot break- 
fast, an hour after we have finished our own, for two 
healthy women.” 

“Very different,” said Sarah; “but I thought 
Milly alone would be enough to bring a cloud to 
your placid brow, as the magazine-writers say.” 

“ Oh, well, perhaps I have been hard upon Amelia,” 
replied Agnes. “She does come across me in so 
many ways, she makes me feel like a cat stroked 
the wrong way. But I don’t mean to quarrel with 
her if I can help it. There comes Kit. How pale 
she looks ! I wonder if her arm is so bad.” 

At this moment the conversation was disagreeably 
interrupted. It is a fact that Oldfield County, and 
especially the town of Oldham, has always enjoyed, 
and, what is worse, has deserved, a very bad reputa- 


128 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

tion in the matter of snakes. It is a snaky town at 
all times ; and there are certain years, when, for 
some reason unknown, snakes do much more abound 
than at other times. This was a “snake summer.” 
The men wore their thickest and highest boots when 
they went into the mowing-lots and the low mead- 
ows, and the children were cautioned to keep a bright 
lookout in their expeditions after wintergreens and 
wild flowers. Mr. Bassett had killed a big rattle- 
snake in his own pasture ; there were stories of cop- 
perheads ; and old Miss Jewsbury declared that she 
had seen a serpent as thick as a clothes-post and as 
long as a well-sweep, crossing the swamp at the foot 
of her garden. But Miss Jewsbury was given to see- 
ing wonderful sights under the inspiration of a cer- 
tain black vial in the corner of her cupboard, and 
nobody believed very deeply in the accuracy of her 
snake story. 

The Fletcher twins, Eddy and Eben, had run on 
before to meet Kit, who was a famous playmate, and 
very fond of the younger children. Just as they 
came near her, Ednah stood still literally, and, fortu- 
nately for herself, too much scared to move ; while 
Eben screamed, — 

“ A snake, a snake ! O Faithie, come ! ” 

Faith stopped, frozen with horror, and pointed to 
the child. A brown snake had actually wound itself 
round her ankle. Before any one could move. Kit 
turned, saw the situation, and was mistress of it. 

“Don’t move, Eddy; stand still!” said she in a 
crisp, clear tone of command. Then, reaching the 
spot with one of her agile, panther-like springs, she 


THE SNAKES. 


129 


bent down, caught the snake with her thumb and 
forefinger just behind the head, and, throwing it on 
the ground, set the heel of her thick boot on its 
head.* 

“ Quick, girls ! ” she cried. ** Kill it before it gets 
away.” 

Agnes and Sarah sprang to the spot, and the 
snake was soon despatched. Faith snatched up 
Ednah, and began stripping down her stocking. 

** Oh, it didn’t bite her : it didn’t have a chance,” 
said Kit, with a laugh that sounded slightly hysteri- 
cal. “ But it was a close shave, wasn’t it, Eddy ? ” 

“ I should think it was, you dear, blessed child ! ” 
exclaimed Sarah, sitting down on a stone, and taking 
Kit on her lap. “There, sit still a minute. How 
you tremble ! and no wonder. — Agnes, get her some 
water.” 

“I don’t think there is any thing to be so scared 
at,” said Selina. “It was only a garter snake.” 

“ Garter snake ! So are you a garter snake ! ” said 
Sarah contemptuously. “ Did you ever see a garter 
snake that color ? — Mr. Bassett ! ” she added, calling 
to the miller, who was just passing, “please come 
and tell us what kind of snake this is.” 

“ It’s a real copperhead, and no mistake,” pro- 
nounced Mr. Bassett. “It is rather a young one, 
but there is no mistaking the nature of the animal. 
See its poison teeth. Take care ! don’t touch ’em : 
the least scratch might do for you. Who killed 
it.?” 

Agnes told the story, while Miss Armstrong 

* This is no fiction, but an actual incident. 


130 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

fanned Kit, who was leaning, very white, against 
Sarah’s shoulder. 

“Well, you are a brave child,” said Mr. Bassett. 
“ How came you to think of acting so } ” 

“I didn’t think: it just came to me,” said Kit, 
sitting up. “I can’t think what makes me feel so 
queer, only I didn’t sleep much, my hand hurt me 
so.” 

“There isn’t one man in a hundred would have 
had the presence of mind, even if he had the cour- 
age,” said Mr. Bassett. “ Myra, hadn’t we better take 
her over to our house, and let her lie down a while } 
I’ll carry her.” 

“Perhaps that will be the best way,” said Miss 
Armstrong. “Wouldn’t you like to go with Mr. 
Bassett, and rest a little } ” 

“ And have a nice cup of coffee ? ” added Myra. 

Kit shook her head. “I should like it,” said she, 
with a loving and grateful look at Myra and her 
father, “but uncle Phin wouldn’t. He has told me 
never to go into the neighbors’ houses for any thing, 
and I think I ought to mind him.” 

“Of course you ought,” replied Mr. Bassett, ex- 
changing glances with Miss Armstrong. 

“ I’ll run home and get the coffee, anyway,” said 
Myra, whose kindness, like her mother’s, was apt to 
take a substantial form. “I am sure she needs 
something.” 

“And do you sit quietly here in the shade, and 
rest,” said Miss Armstrong. “ Sarah shall sit with 
you, lest you should be faint again.” 

“What do you think about Kit now?” asked 


THE SNAKES. I3I 

Agnes of Selina, in a low tone, as they were hanging 
up their hats. 

“ I think a great fuss is being made about noth- 
ing,” said Selina. “ I or anybody could have done 
as much.” 

“ Why didn’t you, then } ” asked one of the little 
girls, who was near. ‘‘You were as close to Eddy as 
Kit was ; and you just stood still and screamed, for 
I saw you.” 

Selina found it convenient not to hear this remark. 
She was listening to the hissing of a snake in her 
own heart, worse than any copperhead that ever 
crawled in Oldham, — the serpent of envy and jeal- 
ousy. The copperhead could, at worst, only have 
killed the child’s body; but her bosom companion 
was poisoning her very soul. 

“ Don’t I tire you } ” said Kit as Sarah settled her 
into an easier position. 

“Not you, you little shrimp; I could hold a dozen 
of you. Sit still if you like it.” 

“ I do,” said Kit. “ It seems so good to be babied 
a little,” she added with a little tremor in her voice. 

Sarah drew Kit’s head closer to her, and kissed 
the brown cheek; but she did not speak, and Kit 
lay in a kind of dreamy content. 

“Sarah,” said she at last, rousing herself just as 
she seemed to be falling asleep. 

“Well, dear.” 

“Do you think it was the Lord put it into my 
head, — how to catch the snake, I mean ? ” 

“I suppose so,” answered Sarah, who was a girl 
who thought about things. “Every thing good is 


132 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

from Him. I don’t see where else it could have 
come from.” 

“ I am so glad I could do it,” said Kit. How 
dreadful it would have been if the snake had bitten 
Eddy ! She might have been dead by this time.” 

“ And suppose it had bitten you ? ” 

“Well, that wouldn’t have mattered so much, for 
I am not anybody’s girl as Eddy is. I suppose 
Symantha would have been sorry, though, because 
she loves me. She said she did, yesterday.” 

“ She must be a queer woman if she didn’t,” said 
Sarah. “ See, here is Myra with some nice coffee for 
you.” 

“ Did you think I was ever so long ? ” said Myra, 
setting down her basket, and taking the cover off a 
little tin pail which gave out a delicious odor. “Ma 
made fresh coffee, and cut some cold chicken, be- 
cause she says you ought to try and eat a little. 
There, drink, little one. What are you looking at?” 
For Kit was regarding the mug Myra handed her, 
with a dazed expression, knitting her brows as if 
trying to recall something. 

“At the mug,” said Kit. “Somehow it makes 
me remember something, and I can’t tell what it is. 
It is just as if I had seen it before. I remember 
those little blue folks on the bridge, and somebody 
telling me a story about them.” 

“ I dare say you may have seen something like it,” 
said Myra “ It is very old china. Ma’s grandfather 
used to be a sailor, and he brought a great many 
curious things from China and India. There, do 
drink your coffee : it will be cold.” 


THE SNAKES. 


133 


‘‘ How good it is, and how good you all are to me ! ” 
said Kit. “ I am so glad uncle Phin came here to 
live ! I hope we shall never move away. Symantha 
says so too. She says she has been about the world 
all she ever wants to.” 

“ Then you have moved a good many times ? ” said 
Sarah, who shared in the general curiosity about 
Phin Mallory, — a curiosity not at all unnatural in 
a place where everybody knew everybody, and every- 
body’s grandfathers, to the third and fourth genera- 
tion. 

“ Oh, yes ! We have lived in five different places 
since I can remember. St. Louis was the first I 
know. Then we went farther west to a new town in 
Kansas, and then into the Indian country. I liked 
it there.” 

“Were you not afraid of the Indians?” asked 
Myra, whose notions of that people were derived 
from legends of the French and Indian war, still 
current in Oldfield County. “ I should be.” 

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t, not of those Indians. They 
were real nice folks, and so kind to us, especially 
when aunt Martha was sick. They were good Chris- 
tians too. Uncle Phin was away a good deal ; and 
sometimes, when he staid over Sunday, I used to go 
to their church. I was very little then ; but I re- 
member the beautiful singing, and the prayers they 
used, — little bits of them. ' We have strayed like 
lost sheep,’ that was one ; I knew it the minute Mr. 
Weston read it last night. And the people used to 
say, ‘Good Lord, deliver us,’ when the minister 
prayed. But we didn’t stay there long. Uncle Phin 


134 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

says the Indians are treacherous dogs, no better than 
wolves ; but I like them.” 

“Have some more coffee,” said Myra. “Well, 
where did you go then } ” 

“We didn’t stay long anywhere ; we just travelled 
about. Finally we came here, and I do hope we 
shall stay ! ” 

“So do I,” said Myra. “You must learn all you 
can, in case you have to go away again. Do you 
feel better ^ ” 

“ Oh, yes I I am quite well now. I guess I will go 
into school. Thank you for the coffee and for being 
so good to me.” 

“ Please ask Miss Armstrong to step to the door,” 
said Myra, gathering up her basket and other matters. 
“ Mother sent me on an errand to her, and I nearly 
forgot it.” Myra’s errand was, to ask Miss Arm- 
strong to come to her mother’s house to tea that 
afternoon. 

“ Mrs. Weston is coming, and so are Miss Celia and 
Miss Delia : that’s all, only I suppose Aunt Betsy will 
turn up, as usual ; oh, yes ! and Patience Fletcher, 
if she can get away. Do come. Miss Armstrong : 
ma wants to see you so much, and I want you to 
see grandma. She is such a dear old lady ! ” 

Miss Armstrong smiled, and promised to come. 
She would have preferred to spend her half-holiday 
quietly ; but she knew this party was made for her, 
and she had been used, all her life, to putting herself 
out of the question. 

Of course all the children went home with their 
heads and mouths full of the snake story, which lost 


THE SNAKES. 


135 


nothing in the telling. Kit was the only one who 
did not mention it. Agnes Gleason told of it at the 
table. She had gone to her mother’s room the even- 
ing before, and opened her heart to her with some 
misgivings, for Mrs. Gleason was not a woman who 
made any profession of religion. She was agreeably 
surprised at the way in which her communication 
was received. 

“I am just as glad as if you had given me a for- 
tune, and more,” said Mrs. Gleason. “I always have 
hoped you would be a Christian.” 

“You never said any thing about it to me, ma,” 
said Agnes. “I’ve wondered sometimes why you 
didn’t.” 

“ Well, I thought it wouldn’t sound very well com- 
ing from one who made no profession of religion 
herself ; but you know, Agnes, I always have kept 
you at Sunday school, and I have taken pains to have 
you learn your catechism.” 

“Yes, I know. Mrs. Martin used to say she 
wished all mothers would do as much. I’m so glad 
you are pleased, ma. It makes me happier than I 
was before,” said Agnes, her eyes overflowing with 
joyful tears. 

“ Well, I am pleased,” said Mrs. Gleason with em- 
phasis. “ But I want to tell you one thing, daughter : 
I want you to join the church the very first time 
there is a confirmation ; that is, if you are sure you 
know your own mind, and I guess you do. You are 
pretty apt to, I will say that for you.” 

“I think so,” said Agnes. “I should like to be 
confirmed. It seems as if that and the communion, 


136 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

and all, would be such a help and safeguard. I 
thought perhaps you would think I was too young to 
come forward.” 

“I don’t,” replied her mother. “Your grandfather 
Gleason was a minister of great experience, and I 
have heard him say that the proportion of backslid- 
ers among young church-members is much less than 
among those who wait till middle life. And it stands 
to reason, too, because they are not so fixed in bad 
habits.” 

“ How did it happen, ma, that you never were con- 
firmed yourself ^ ” asked Agnes. 

“Well, it was just that way. We had a large class 
confirmed when I was about your age. I was very 
serious at that time, and I wanted very much to come 
forward. Dr. Munson was in favor of it ; and prob- 
ably, if my parents had been alive, I should have 
done so. But I was living with Aunt Betsy then, and 
she was against it. She said I was too young to 
understand what I was about, and not serious-minded 
enough, and so on ; and she wouldn’t give her con- 
sent. Then I went away to Elmsbury, and there I 
fell in with a good deal of gay society ; and — 
Well, I don’t know how it was, but I lost my hope, 
and never found it again ; and sometimes I think I 
never shall,” added Mrs. Gleason sadly. “Aunt 
Betsy always says it shows she was right about me.” 

“ I think it shows she was wrong,” said Agnes. 

“ And so do I. I have got to answer for myself, 
of course, but I can’t help blaming her for part of it ; 
and I made up my mind that I should take a very 
different course with you.” 


THE SNAKES. 


137 


am so glad!” said Agnes. **But, ma,” she 
added timidly, “ why don’t you come forward now 
It would be so sweet for us to go together. We 
always have been together in every thing, you know, 
ever since I was a little girl.” 

“Yes, I always have made a companion of you. 
Sometimes I’m afraid I put too much on you.” 

“ No, you don’t either,” said Agnes, with some in- 
dignation. “ There isn’t a girl in Oldham has better 
times than I do, only for ” — 

“ Only for the summer boarders,” said Mrs. Glea- 
son as Agnes paused. “ Well, I hope we shall not 
have to take them again. I have calculated that this 
season will pay off the mortgage, and after that we 
shall be easy enough.” 

“ But won’t you think about it, ma ? ” 

“ Child, I have thought enough, if that would do 
any good. But, I don’t know how it is, my heart 
seems as hard as the nether millstone, or like the 
Bald Rock on Indian Hill, where neither sun nor 
rain will make any thing grow.” 

“But we can do right, whether we feel right or 
not,” said Agnes. 

“ There is something in that,” replied her mother. 
“But we must not talk any more to-night. Goto 
bed, dear, and I will come as soon as I have set the 
bread. — Bless the child ! I only wish her dear father 
knew it,” added Mrs. Gleason to herself as she went 
about her bread. “ I wish that Milly Richmond 
wasn’t here : she is one of those birds of the air 
we read of in the parable. But I don’t think my girl 
is a wayside hearer.” 


138 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** I shall not dare to step out of doors all the time 
I am here,” was Milly Richmond’s comment on the 
snake story. 

“You will get rather tired of that,” said Mrs. 
Gleason. “ I have known several ‘ snake summers ’ 
since I have been here, but I have seldom known of 
any one’s being hurt. It was a narrow escape for 
little Eddy, however, and for Kit herself. I can’t 
think how the child should know just what to do.” 

“ She asked Sarah if she didn’t think it was the 
Lord who showed her,” said Agnes, “ and Sarah said 
she didn’t doubt it.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t know Sarah had taken up the pious 
dodge,” remarked Milly, with a sneer. “ Does the 
new teacher go in for that kind of thing ? ” 

“ What kind of thing ? ” asked Agnes. Then, as 
Milly only laughed, she added, “ Miss Armstrong is 
a Christian woman, if that is what you mean ; and 
we like her the better for it.” 

“ Of course she is. Don’t you know, Milly, we 
heard all about her from Miss Brown ^ She is a great 
friend of old Mrs. Van Zandt and that set,” said Mrs. 
Richmond, who would have given one of her fingers 
for a call from aunt Barbara at her fine new house. 
“ I wonder what brought her up here.” 

“ Perhaps she came on a mission to convert the 
natives,” said Milly, who never lost an opportunity 
of showing that she looked down on the people where 
she spent her summers. “ Maybe she will convert 
you, Agnes.” 

“Maybe she has,” said Agnes. “So much the 
better for me.” 


THE SNAKES. 


139 


** Grandfather Gleason used to say that conversion 
is not the work of man, though man may be the 
honored instrument,” said Mrs. Gleason. “ Agnes 
has got a great deal of good from Miss Armstrong 
already, and I hope she may get more. It is a pity 
you would not try going to school to her yourself, 
Milly. Perhaps she might do something, even for 
you.” 

Milly curled her lip and tossed her head ; but she 
had come off second best in more than one encounter 
with her hostess, and she did not care to try another. 
She made up her mind, however, that, if Agnes had 
taken up any such notions, she would soon laugh 
her out of them. Mrs. Gleason had rightly called her 
one of the birds of the air. But such birds have no 
power over the seed sown in good ground ; it is only 
that which falls on the hard-trodden wayside which 
becomes their prey. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TWO TEA-PARTIES. 

When Mrs. Weston and Miss Armstrong entered 
Mrs. Bassett’s front parlor, they found the rest of the 
company assembled, and were welcomed by their 
hostess with ** Why, how late you are ! I was most 
thinking you were not coming. I’m afraid you’re 
growing fashionable, Abby.” 

“ Not a bit,” answered Mrs. Weston. ** It was not 
fashion that kept me, but flour. Mr. Bassett was so 
late with the grist, that he made me late with my 
Saturday’s baking ; and I didn’t like to leave it all to 
Selina.” 

“ Do tell ! ” said Mrs. Bassett. “ Pa has been very 
much driven with work, and Mr. Cook being sick 
puts him about. But where is Selina.? I thought 
she would come too.” 

“ I left her to keep house. She has to be elder 
daughter, now Lizzy is gone.” 

Well, she must come another time. — Do take off 
your things, Miss Armstrong. I’m so glad to see 
you ! I believe you know everybody here only 
Patience. Where is she ? Oh, here she comes. — 

140 


TPVO 7'EA-PARTIES. 


I4I 

Patience, let me make you acquainted with Miss 
Armstrong.” 

“ I feel as if I knew Miss Fletcher already through 
the children,” said Miss Armstrong, cordially shak- 
ing hands with Patience. “I hope Ednah is none 
the worse for her adventure this morning. Poor 
child, she had a terrible fright.” 

“Oh, yes, with the snake,” said Mrs. Bassett. 
“ The scare was enough to kill her.” 

“I don’t think she was as much frightened as 
Faithie was,” answered Patience. “ She says her- 
self she didn’t have time. But it is dreadful to 
think what would have happened only for Kit,” she 
added, shuddering. “I little thought, when I was 
fretting about that child’s coming to school with our 
young ones, what she was to do for them.” 

“ Which shows what I am always telling you. 
Patience, — that there is no use in fretting and bor- 
rowing trouble,” remarked Mrs. Bassett. 

“ Kit seems a well-disposed child in every way, 
I think,” said Miss Celia, whose knitting-needles 
were pursuing their rapid, even rounds in the corner. 
“ She brought home my tortoise-shell kitten when it 
strayed away. I can hardly think she belongs to 
these people.” 

“She don’t,” returned Aunt Betsy, who had ful- 
filled Myra’s prediction by ‘ dropping in ’ a little 
before tea-time. “ If she was a Mallory, we should 
know something about her, at any rate. They took 
her out of the poorhouse. I don’t suppose anybody 
even knows whether she had a grandfather.” 

“It seems probable that she had one of some 


142 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


sort,’* said Mrs. Bassett. ‘‘Folks don’t often come 
into the world like mushrooms, without any ances- 
tors at all.” 

“ She must have come of a good family somehow,” 
said Miss Celia with mild persistence. 

“ I do not think that so certain,” remarked Miss 
Armstrong. “ I have had a good deal of experience 
with children in all positions, from what might be 
called the top of the social ladder to the bottom ; and 
I have found all sorts of dispositions in all sorts of 
places. I have seen most beautiful growths of good- 
ness and self-sacrifice in the midst of vice and igno- 
rance such as you can have no idea of unless you 
have seen it, and I have seen very extraordinary 
tendencies to wickedness among children who had 
been most carefully brought up.” 

“ Well, you won’t persuade me that it don’t make 
any difference whether folks are respectable, decent 
folks, or loafers,” said Aunt Betsy. “Nobody will 
ever make me think that.'' 

“Anybody would be very foolish to try,” said 
Mrs. Weston. “All Miss Armstrong says is, that 
good and bad dispositions do not depend entirely 
upon family, or even upon training.” 

“ Exactly so,” assented Miss Armstrong. “ Other 
things being equal, well-trained and well-nurtured 
children are likely to be better than those who are 
neither ; but there are exceptions in all cases.” 

“To read some books, one would think that all 
people need is, to be shown the right way, and they 
jump into it at once,” said Miss Delia. “I was 
reading one the other day, in which a young girl went 


TWO TEA-PARTIES. 


143 


to Stay at a country village for the summer, and con- 
verted everybody in it. Just as if all one had to do 
was to catch folks, and do good to them ! ” 

“ I know the class of books you mean, and I have 
a special objection to them,” said Miss Armstrong. 

Old-fashioned people complain of novels because 
they give false views of life, and I find fault with 
these books for the same reason. Enthusiastic 
young people reading them are apt, as you say, to 
think that all one has to do to reform people is to set 
the good before them, and they take to it at once ; 
whereas the fact is, that sinners in general are not 
wicked because they know no better, but because 
they like wickedness the best.” 

“Just so,” assented Mrs. Weston. “Look at the 
case of Harry Burchard, for instance,” alluding to a 
somewhat famous burglar. “ That fellow had a good 
bringing-up, and learned a good trade ; and the same 
enterprise and ingenuity which made him such a 
successful burglar would have made him an equally 
successful business-man.” 

“ And it was no want of grandfathers in his case,” 
observed Miss Delia. “ He is a great-grandson of 
old Mr. Wheeler, who used to preach in Oldbury in 
Revolutionary times. Fve noticed in these same 
books, that, in all the church work, the pastor is of 
no account whatever : it is the young folks that do 
every thing.” 

“Talking of pastors, is it true that Mr. Brace is 
coming in two weeks } ” 

“Quite true, I am glad to say,” answered Mrs. 
Weston. “ And that reminds me of something I want 


144 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


to talk about.” And Mrs. Weston forthwith plunged 
into the subject of the church-cleaning. All present 
took up the matter with enthusiasm except Aunt 
Betsy, — who was constitutionally opposed to every 
thing, — and Patience Fletcher. Aunt Betsy thought 
it would never do to make such a fuss about clean- 
ing up the church : it would be as much as saying 
right out that it was dirty; that would hurt Mr. 
Archimball’s feelings, which would be a shame after 
all the years he had taken care of the church. 

“All the years he hasn’t taken care of it, you 
mean,” said Mrs. Bassett. “If Archimball had 
done his duty, things wouldn’t be in the state they 
are. I don’t think we are bound to sit in the dirt 
all our lives, to spare his feelings. — Well, Patience, 
what do you think ? ” 

“ I think it is an excellent plan,” answered Patience, 
“ and I only wish I could promise to help about it ; 
but I don’t see how I can. I’ve got so much laid 
out to do next week.” 

“ Poor thing ! ” said Mrs. Bassett, laughing. “ It 
is a pity. Patience, that you hadn’t a baker’s dozen 
of children, so you could get a little leisure. What 
is it that presses so dreadfully ? Maybe I can help 
you a little.” 

“Well, I calculated to clean the spare bedroom, 
for one thing; and there are the curtains to wash 
and do up, and the children’s clothes to see to. Eben 
and Eddy do make so much washing!” 

“ Sakes alive I what would you do if you had my 
two big boys, besides Mr. Bassett and the little ones .? 
Come, Patience, let the spare room rest a week. I 


TWO TEA -TAR TIES. 


145 


tell you it isn’t good for any one to work all the time 
in a half-bushel. That’s one reason why I am in 
favor of missionary work : it gives one an outlook, 
— makes a window into the world, as it were. — Don’t 
you think so. Miss Armstrong.? ” 

I certainly do ; but perhaps I am an interested 
party,” answered Miss Armstrong, smiling. “ I have 
been busy with missionary work of some sort ever 
since I was eighteen, and even before, for my father 
and mother were missionaries before me. But I 
think with you, Mrs. Bassett, that we all need out- 
side windows in our lives. I believe many an over- 
worked housekeeper would find her life lightened if 
she would interest herself in something outside her 
own household.” 

‘‘Yes, it is easy to say that,” said Patience a little 
peevishly. “But there is only just so much time, 
anyhow ; and, if it is full, it is full.” 

“Very true,” replied Miss Armstrong. “In that 
case we must consider whether there is not some- 
thing that can be turned out.” 

“ A man is to provide first for his own household,” 
said Patience. 

“Very true again ; but to provide what.? that is 
the real question, you see. Is a man bound to spend 
so much time heaping dollar upon dollar for his sons, 
that he has no time to know what sort of compan- 
ions they have, or where they pass their evenings .? 
Or is a mother obliged to spend so much time and 
labor providing Sunday finery for her little daughter, 
that she has no time to teach the child her catechism, 
or see that she understands her Bible lesson .? ” 


146 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“ That is an extreme case,” said Patience. 

** It is a very common case, I am sorry to say,” 
answered Miss Armstrong. I know more than one 
mother of moderate means who thinks she has no 
time to attend to her daughter’s lessons, because she 
must dress the child as finely as somebody else who 
has five times her income.” 

“ I don’t think I put much finery on our children,” 
said Patience ; but I do like to have them look 
nicely, — as their mother would like to have them 
look if she could see them.” 

I think you do keep them very nicely,” said Miss 
Armstrong. ‘‘It is easy to see that Eddy and Eben 
are not neglected for the sake of any thing. I never 
saw two better-trained or pleasanter children.” 

Patience’s pale cheek flushed with pleasure. These 
two babies, left her by her fair young stepmother, 
herself a dear friend and playmate, were as the 
apple of her eye. 

“Pa and P'aithie deserve most of the credit of 
that,” said she frankly. “Perhaps I do think too 
much about my housekeeping and all that. You see, 
I was left in charge when I was very young, and I 
felt such a responsibility. Even when mother Hes- 
ter came, she was such a delicate little thing I felt I 
ought to spare her all I could ; and she staid with us 
such a little time, — only a year and a half ” — 

“It was a dreadful foolish thing of your farther, 
marrying that child, and when every one knew her 
family was consumptive,” said Aunt Betsy. 

“I don’t think so,” returned Patience. “It was 
one of the best things that ever happened in our 


TPVO TEA-PARTIES. 


H7 


house. Hester was like a sunbeam, or like an angel 
that came to make a visit, and then went back to 
heaven again. Eddy is just like her.” 

“Yes, I expect she’ll inherit the disease,” rejoined 
Job’s comforter. “ She has just Hester’s clear blue 
eyes and red cheeks.” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Bassett. “Eddy is as 
tough as a little knot. That is another notion that 
does no end of harm, — I mean, thinking a girl must 
needs have the consumption because her mother had 
it. My grandfather was bitten in two by a sperm 
whale, but I don’t expect that is going to happen 
to me.” 

“Whales don’t run in families,” said Aunt Betsy 
with dignity, while all the rest laughed : “ consump- 
tion does.” 

“ Whales have run in my family for a good many 
generations, — ever since Nantucket folks took to 
catching them,” said Mrs. Bassett. “But, as to 
Ednah, I do hope nobody will put such an idea in 
the child’s head. I do believe prophecies of that 
kind sometimes bring their own fulfilment.” 

“ I think you are right, Mrs. Bassett,” said Miss 
Armstrong. “ I have known of at least one case in 
which melancholy insanity was brought on, appar- 
ently from no other cause than the one you men- 
tion.” 

“Talking of insanity brings us round to Kit 
again,” said Mrs. Weston. “I do wish something 
could be done for that child. I spoke to Symantha 
about her coming to Sunday school ; and she said she 
should have no objection herself, but there was no 


148 OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

use in talking to her father : he would never allow 
it, and would only be angry. I think she feared, 
though she did not say so, that he would visit his 
anger on the child.” 

“Yes, I know,” added Mrs. Bassett. “He told pa 
he hated the very name of God. * That’s queer,’ 
says pa, * to hate somebody you don’t believe in. I’d 
never trouble myself to hate a man if I believed 
there was no such person,’ says pa. And Phin never 
said another word. Well, we must just bear poor 
Kit on our minds, and maybe some w^y will be 
opened. She seems to have a sense of religion, too, 
from all I hear. Myra says she asked Sarah Leet 
if she didn’t think the Lord told her how to catch 
the snake.” 

“No doubt He did,” said Miss Delia; “but it isn’t 
every one that would have minded as quick as she 
did. Some folks would have said, ‘ Oh, dear ! Lord, 
I can’t : I’m afraid.’” 

“Good-afternoon, ladies. Settling all the affairs 
of the parish, I expect,” said Mr. Bassett, appearing 
at the parlor door in his dusty miller’s coat, his hair 
and face white with flour. Mrs. Bassett looked 
scandalized. 

“ Now, pa, what do you mean coming in like that } 
Do go and dress yourself. There’s your clean things 
all laid out for you, and you come in all over flour. 
I do declare, I never saw such a man ! Go and get 
dressed, there’s a dear, for I expect Myra has got 
tea all ready.” 

Mr. Bassett indulged in a jolly laugh as he with- 
drew, which was echoed from the great kitchen where 


TfVO TEA-PARTIES. 


149 


Myra and her little sisters were getting tea. Such 
laughs were common in the Bassett family. The 
household was one of those through which a fresh, 
warm gale seems always blowing, making a good 
deal of noise and stir, but keeping every thing bright 
and sweet. 

“Did you ever see such a man said Ma Bassett, 
appealing to the company in general, with wifely and 
motherly pride shining all over her comely face. 
“ And he makes the children as bad as he is. Such 
hands to laugh I never saw.” 

“ The crackling of thorns under a pot, that’s what 
Scripture calls it,” said Aunt Betsy, who always re- 
sented a laugh as though it must needs be directed 
at herself. 

“That is the laughter of fools,” returned Miss 
Delia, bristling a little in defence of her host. “And 
I, for my part, would rather hear thorns crackling 
under a pot than the east wind screeching through 
a keyhole.” 

Aunt Betsy betook herself to her snuff-box, her 
usual refuge when worsted. 

“Never mind, Delia; we all know Aunt Betsy’s 
bark is worse than her bite,” said Ma Bassett. 
“ Ladies, will you walk out to supper } ” 

At the tea-table the subject of the church-clean- 
ing was renewed. Mr. Bassett approved heartily. 

“Such a piece of work ought to be easy ‘here,” re- 
marked Miss Armstrong : “you all seem so united.” 

“Yes, we are very fortunate in that,” answered 
Mr. Bassett. “There has never been any church 
here but ours. There is a small Methodist society 


150 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

over at the cross-roads; very nice folks they are 
too, I must say.” 

“I don’t see how you can say that,” interrupted 
Aunt Betsy. “Joe Hilton belonged to them, and he 
got drunk at the county fair, and gambled away his 
cow.” 

“ There are black sheep in every flock,” said Miss 
Delia.” 

“ And they took him back again, and he belongs 
there now,” continued Aunt Betsy triumphantly, as 
though she considered the niceness of the Methodist 
folks forever disproved. 

“ Yes, they restored him in the spirit of meekness,” 
said Mr. Bassett. “Poor Joe was a very hard case 
for many years before he joined the Methodists ; and 
it was no wonder, perhaps, that the old temptation 
overcame him. He has worked for me all the spring, 
and I don’t want a better man.” 

“Mr. Martin said the Methodist society was the 
natural refuge of the lower classes,” observed Myra. 

“ Yes, I know he did ; and that foolish remark re- 
peated did more harm than he would ever do good. 
What business had he talking about upper and lower 
classes } His father was a foundryman, and his 
mother kept a little caYidy-shop to help them along.” 

“That was no disgrace to them,” observed Miss 
Delia. 

“ Not a bit. It was an item to their credit, and 
ought to have kept him from talking such nonsense.” 

“ What kind of a man was he ? ” asked Miss Arm- 
strong. 

“Well, he was a man of a good deal of talent and 


TWO TEA-PARTIES. 


15I 

reading ; but he did not get on, soniehow,” replied 
Mr. Bassett. “ I don’t know as I could tell what the 
matter was ” — 

“The matter was, that he was always feeling 
abused, and complaining, because, as he said, he had 
no congenial spirits to associate with,” struck in 
Miss Delia. “ He had a great notion of himself and 
his own consequence, and thought himself buried in 
a country parish ; and you see no church likes to be 
looked upon in the light of a tomb,” added the little 
lady, laughing. “ I hope Mr. Brace is not like that.” 

“ He is not,” said Miss Armstrong. “ He is not a 
man to think himself buried anywhere, so long as he 
has work to do for his Master.” 

“ Then you know him } ” 

“ Oh, yes, I know him,” answered Miss Arm- 
strong: “we used to work together in New York 
years ago. I think you will all like him very much. 
He is very strong upon the proprieties of public 
worship,” she added. “ I could not help thinking 
of him last Sunday when I happened to notice that 
great cobweb in the corner over the organ.” 

“ And that brings us to the church-cleaning again,” 
said Ma Bassett, whose womanly eye saw that Miss 
Armstrong was a little bit agitated. The -subject 
was discussed in all its length and breadth ; and, be- 
fore the party broke up, it was quite settled that the 
two church-wardens should take the first step toward 
calling a parish meeting. 

When the friends separated, Mrs. Weston and 
Miss Delia were deep in some occult mystery con- 
cerning the coloring of carpet-rags, an art for which 


152 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

the little lady was renowned ; and Miss Armstrong 
and Patience Fletcher walked on together. 

“ How easy Mrs. Bassett does take every thing ! ” 
said Patience. ‘‘ I wish I was like her.” 

“ Is she always so } ” asked Miss Armstrong, 

“Just the same, whatever happens. Even when 
her children were little, and they were not as well 
off as they are now, she never fretted. She always 
would take time to rest and read. I staid there once 
for three weeks when father, had small-pox. Every 
day after dinner, when she had washed up the dishes 
and got the baby to sleep, she used to take her Bible 
or some other book, and lie down for half or three- 
quarters of an hour. Sometimes she would read, 
and sometimes she would take a little nap ; but she 
always got up as fresh as a daisy.” 

“ I suspect that is one secret of her cheerfulness,” 
said Miss Armstrong. “ She takes time to rest, and 
to feed her spirit.” 

“Well, I wonder if that is what ails me,” said 
Patience. 

“Does any thing ail you.^” asked Miss Arm- 
strong. “I thought you were a happy woman.” 

“Well, I am not,” answered Patience. “I don’t 
know what the matter is, either. It is all right 
enough outside, if I did not have quite so much to 
do; but, I don’t know how it is, I don’t have any 
peace or joy in religion. I pray, of course, and go 
to communion ; but I don’t have any comfort in it. 
My prayers never seem to get outside of the room.” 

“Since the Hearer of prayer is undoubtedly in 
the room, there is, perhaps, no need of their getting 


TIVO TEA-PARTIES, 


153 


out,” said Miss Armstrong. “ I understand the feel- 
ing, however, and it is a very sad one. But, Miss 
Fletcher ” — 

“ Call me Patience, please. Everybody does.” 

“ So I will, for it is a favorite name of mine. Are 
you sure, Patience, dear, that you are not starving 
your soul all this time } It must have nourishment, 
you know, as well as the body. Excuse the freedom 
of the question, but do you take time enough for 
your devotions ” 

“ I don’t suppose I do,” answered Patience. “ I 
am so hurried in the morning, and at night I am so 
tired.” 

“But during the day, while the children are at 
school — 

“Yes, I know; but there always seems some sew- 
ing or cleaning to do,- that takes up the time.” 

“Are you sure that all that sewing and cleaning 
are necessary } Or, if it is, why not leave some of 
it for Faith when she comes home } She ought to 
help you a good deal.” 

“ Well, she does ; and she would like to help me a 
great deal more. She isn’t a bit of a shirk. Faith 
isn’t. But — Well, the fact is, Miss Armstrong, I 
have my own ways and plans ; and, if things are not 
done just exactly so, it puts me out, and makes me 
uncomfortable.” 

“Isn’t it possible that you are making idols of 
your own ways and plans 1 ” asked Miss Armstrong 
gently. 

“ Idols } ” repeated Patience, as if a little offended. 
“ I don’t know what you mean.” 


154 OLDHAM i OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

idol is any thing which comes between us 
and God,” said Miss Armstrong; “whatever we set 
up in His place is an idol. Your ways and plans 
may be ever so good ; but, if you allow them to take 
all your time and thoughts ” — Miss Armstrong 
paused, and added, “The cares of this world, you 
know, can choke the Word as well as the deceitful- 
ness of riches.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Patience; “but if He sends 
the cares ? ” 

“ The cares He sends don’t often have that effect. 
It comes from the cares we make for ourselves. Let 
me tell you a little story to illustrate my meaning. 
I once attended a missionary meeting in a certain 
city, and staid with a very kind lady with whom I 
was slightly acquainted. The first meeting was in 

the afternoon, and I asked Mrs. M if she did not 

mean to go. She said it was impossible : she had 
been busy all the morning, and expected to be busy 
all the afternoon. I brought back with me another 
lady, who had been assigned to the same quarters. 
When we sat down to tea, we had four kinds of cake 
and two kinds of biscuit, besides a strawberry short- 
cake and some hot dish or other. We could not 
have eaten the four kinds of cake and the strawberry 
short-cake without risk to our lives ; yet she must 
make them, though she lost the whole day’s meeting. 
Now, were that lady’s cares of the Lord’s sending } ” 

“ I suppose not,” said Patience, laughing, as it 
seemed in spite of herself. “ I don’t think I am so 
bad as that, and yet I don’t know. Perhaps I am. 
But, Miss Armstrong, I talked to Mr. Martin when 


TWO TEA-PARTIES. 


155 


he was here, and told him how I felt, and how little 
interest I had in religion ; and he said it was the state 
of my health, — that people always felt so when they 
were not well, and that he was the same way him- 
self.” 

I think that excuse is used far too often,” replied 
Miss Armstrong. “ It seems your health does not 
hinder your taking such an interest in your house- 
hold matters that you can allow no one to help 
you ; and, if so, why should it prevent you from being 
interested in your devotion } ” 

‘‘There is^ something in that,” observed Patience. 
“ Mr. Martin himself was in a terrible taking because 
my Leghorn chickens were heavier than his. Be- 
sides that, it seems as if our religion can’t be worth 
much if it is going to fail us when we want it the very 
most. Well, Miss Armstrong, I should not wonder if 
you were right. Anyhow, I will think it over.” 

“ And pray over it,” said Miss Armstrong. “And, 
dear Patience, remember that He who said, ‘Seek first 
the kingdom of God and His righteousness,’ was one 
who knew every one of our burdens and hinderances 
as well as ourselves, or better.” 

“ If one could always remember that,” said Pa- 
tience rather sadly. “Well, good-night. Miss Arm- 
strong. I am ever so much obliged to you.” And 
Patience went home so full of thought that she 
actually failed to remark that Faith had hung up 
the dish-towels endways instead of lengthways, and 
had set up the teacups in twos instead of threes. 

Another tea-party had been held that afternoon, 
quite as pleasant, though smaller and more informal. 


156 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS 

said Symantha after dinner, ‘Mon’t you 
want to go up and play on the mountain this after- 
noon ? I’m going to clean up the kitchen, and I 
want it all to myself.” 

“Yes, indeed, I should like it!” answered Kit; 
“but I thought perhaps you would want me to sit 
with aunt Martha.” 

“ No ; she had a bad time this morning, and she 
will be sure to sleep all the afternoon. I’ll give you 
some gingerbread and a bottle of milk, so you can 
have a picnic and a nice time reading. Wait a 
minute : I’ve got something else for you.” She left 
the room, and presently returned with a book bound 
in colored calf, old but still in good preservation. 
“That was my grandmother’s book,” said she as she 
put it into Kit’s hands. “ I found it this morning 
on the top shelf of a cupboard in the back room. 
Take good care of it.” 

Kit opened the volume, which proved to be a copy 
of the “Pilgrim’s Progress” and “The Holy War” 
bound together. 

“Oh, how glad I am!” she exclaimed. “Now I 
can read it all. Thank you, Symantha.” 

“ I was looking for a Bible for you ; and perhaps 
I shall find one yet, somewhere,” said Symantha. 
“There ought to be one about the house, I should 
think.” 

“ I have got a Testament,” said Kit timidly. 

“ Have you } Where did you get it } ” 

Kit told the story. Symantha listened with her 
face turned away. 

“ Don’t let pa or Melissa see it or know any thing 


T^O TEA-PARTIES. 


^S7 


about it,” was her comment. ‘'Keep it hid away. 
After all, I don’t see why he should care,” she added, 
speaking more to herself than to Kit. “ If it is all a 
dream, at least it is one that gives people comfort ; 
and there is not too much of that in the world.” 

“ But it isn’t all a dream, I am sure it isn’t,” said 
Kit with tearful earnestness. “I don’t know as I 
could tell you why, — I am only a little girl, — but I 
am just as sure it is true as that I am alive.” 

“ Well, child, think so if it does you any good. I 
wish I did, though I am badly off if it is,” Symantha 
added with a bitter smile. “ But there, run along, 
and have a nice time. Pa and Melissa have gone to 
Oldbury, and won’t be at home till night ; so you can 
stay as long as you like.” 

Kit kissed Symantha, and betook herself to her 
favorite place on the hill. As she came round the 
end of the ledge, she saw two figures ascending from 
the other side, carrying a basket between them ; and 
her heart beat with pleasure as she recognized the. 
two young ladies from the stone house. 

“ Oh, I do hope they are coming here I ” she said 
to herself. She was not mistaken. 

“Here is our little hostess,” said Ida. “I hoped 
we should find her. Kitty, my dear, will you lend 
us the use of your summer parlor this afternoon, and 
join us in a picnic } You see we have brought our 
basket.” 

Kit never knew exactly how she answered; but 
certain it is, neither of her guests found any fault 
with their welcome. 

“ Now, where shall we put our provisions, to keep 


158 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

them fresh and cool till we want them ? ” asked 
Amity. For answer Kit moved away a thin slab of 
stone, and showed a deep, shady cavity, which seemed 
to be of some size. 

** I call that my spring-house,” said she. “ There 
really is a spring in there. If you listen you will 
hear it.” 

Both the girls bent down, and distinctly heard the 
silvery plash of water-drops in the little cave. 

How very pretty ! ” said Amity. If we lighted 
a match we might see the whole of it.” 

“ I don’t know as I want to,” replied Kit a little 
shyly. “ I like to think it is a great, deep cave with 
jewels and all kinds of beautiful things, and a lovely 
lady like the one in my old fairy-book. 

Exactly,” said Ida. “I understand. You and I 
like to imagine, while Amity wants to go to the 
bottom of every thing with a match and -a candle. 
However, we won’t disturb your romance, Kitty. And 
now what shall we do to amuse ourselves } What 
book have you there } ” 

Kit displayed her treasure. 

‘‘ What a nice old copy ! ” said Amity. “ See, Ida, 
what a beautiful titlepage, with the warriors of ‘ The 
Holy War’ winding down one side, and Christian 
and Hopeful toiling up the other. Suppose we take 
turns in reading aloud, Ida: I dare say Kitty will 
like to hear some of her book. And then you shall 
give us some music. — You will like that, won’t you, 
Kitty .? ” 

Oh, yes, ma’am ! ” answered Kit with sparkling 
eyes; ‘‘but perhaps you and Miss Van Zandt would 


TWO TEA-PARTIES, 


159 


rather read your own books,” she added with instinc- 
tive politeness, glancing at the volumes the girls had 
taken from their basket. 

‘‘No, indeed!” answered Ida. “The ‘Pilgrim’s 
Progress ’ is just the book for such a place and such 
an afternoon.” 

“Well, don’t let us waste all our time getting 
ready,” said practical Amity, producing her knitting, 
which her friends were wont to consider as much a 
part of herself as her fingers. “ Begin at the begin- 
ning, Ida.” 

“ ‘ As I walked through the wilderness of this world, 
I lighted on a certain place where was a den ; and I 
laid me down in that place to sleep.’ ” 

How many children during the last two hundred 
years have had their attention arrested, and their 
imaginations charmed, by these words ! I know of no 
book which gains more by being well read aloud than 
the “Pilgrim’s Progress;” and Ida read aloud uncom- 
monly well, having been thoroughly trained in that 
most desirable accomplishment by her mother and 
aunt Barbara. I do not mean to imply that she was 
that fearsome creature, an elocutionist. On the con- 
trary, she read like a lady, in a clear, soft voice, with 
due emphasis, and attention to stops. Kit sat with 
folded hands, and listened as in a happy dream. The 
weather was perfect, sunny but not too bright, with 
fleecy clouds passing over the blue sky, — 

“ Shepherded by the soft, unwilling wind,” — 

which did not reach the sheltered hillside. She felt 
a pleasure in the pretty calico dresses and well-suited 


l60 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

colors, the glossy hair and becoming hats, of the young 
ladies, in their well-trained voices and manners, and 
above all in the wonderful story. She did not, of 
course, understand it fully, — it is a book wherein the 
most experienced Christian may find much to ponder, 
— but she had a general idea of the meaning ; while 
to her Christian and his wife. Obstinate and Pliable, 
Mr. Worldly Wiseman and the keeper of the wicket 
gate, were as real as uncle Phin and Mr. Bassett and all 
the other people she saw every day. Kit often looked 
back on that day as one of the happiest of her life. 

“ Now we will have some music,” said Amity after 
they had got Christian safely to the House Beautiful. 
‘‘ What will you sing, Ida } ” 

“ What would Kitty like to hear ? ” asked Ida. 

“Please, would you sing the hymn they sang in 
the schoolhouse the other night ? ” asked Kit with 
bashful eagerness. “The first one, I mean.” 

Ida complied, and sang that most beautiful of hymns 
all through ; Kit listening meanwhile as if her life 
depended on not losing a note. 

“ That is lovely ! ” she said, more to herself than 
to Ida, when the hymn was finished. “I think I 
could sing it now if I knew the words.” 

“ Can you sing ? ” asked Amity. 

“Yes, ma’am, I could always sing every thing I 
heard ; but I never had a chance to learn many 
hymns. I can sing ‘Swing low, sweet chariot,’ 
through.” 

“ Sing it,” said Amity ; and Kit complied. Her 
voice, of course, was quite uncultivated. 

“You ought to take singing-lessons,” remarked 
Ida. “ I suppose you never had any.” 


TJVO TEA-PARTIES. 


l6l 


‘‘ No, ma’am. I never had lessons in any thing till 
I came here, only Symantha taught me to read and 
write, and to sew ; and sometimes I would go to 
school a few weeks at a time, but not very often.” 

“You don’t remember any thing about your 
mother .? ” 

“ No, ma’am, not really. Sometimes when aunt 
Martha is pretty quiet, and especially when I look 
at her asleep, she makes me think about my mother; 
but I can’t tell why. Melissa says my mother died 
in the poorhouse ; but she is such a liar I never be- 
lieve any thing she says,” concluded Kit in a matter- 
of-fact tone which scandalized Amity. 

“ Hush, hush ! ” said she. “ Little girls should not 
call people liars.” 

“Not when they tell lies.^” asked Kit. “Melissa 
does ; you cant believe a word she says about any 
thing.” 

Ida bent down to hide a smile, and Amity found it 
convenient to change the subject. 

“Does not Symantha tell you any thing about 
your mother ? ” 

“No, ma’am. I asked her once or twice, but she 
did not answer ; and I saw she did not like it, so I 
didn’t say any more. Symantha has so much trouble, 
and she is so good to me, I don’t like to do any thing 
to bother her.” 

“Quite right,” said Amity. “But you say you 
do not think you lived in the poorhouse. Why ? ” 

Kit knitted her brows, and her eyes assumed the 
far-off look they always took when she tried to recall 
her faint recollections of her former home. 


1 62 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

“ Because of things I can recollect,’^ said she. I 
remember sitting on the floor, and tracing out the 
pattern of the carpet with my finger. When I saw 
Mrs. Blandy’s carpet hung out, I thought of it. And 
I remember a gray bird in a round cage, and — I 
know that can’t be true though — it seems just as 
if it could talk.” 

“ I dare say it did,” said Ida. Probably the bird 
was a gray parrot. But don’t you recollect any lady 
that took care of you, and that you called mamma 
or mother ? ” 

“ No, not really,” said Kit. Whenever I try, 
it seems for a minute as if I did ; and then she gets 
all mixed up with aunt Martha. Only there is one 
thing I have thought of since you said that name 
Kathleen,” added Kit eagerly. I know that is my 
name ; ahd somebody, I don’t know who, used to sing 
a song about Kathleen, — * Kathleen My — ’ some- 
thing. I think I should know the tune if I heard it : 
I always do remember tunes.” 

Was this it ? ” asked Ida, and she sang a verse 
of the beautiful Irish song, — 

“ Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking.” 

She had not finished the verse when Kit broke in, 
her eyes and cheeks blazing with excitement, — 

“That is it, that is it! I have dreamed it some- 
times, but I never could remember it when I was 
awake. Oh, I know it was my mother that sang 
that ! ” and she burst into such a passionate fit of cry- 
ing and sobbing, that the girls were alarmed. 

“ Hush, my dear. Don’t cry so ; you will be sick,” 


TIVO TEA-PARTIES, 1 63 

said Amity, putting her arm round the child. ** There, 
try to quiet yourself.” 

Kit made a violent effort, and succeeded in regain- 
ing some degree of composure. “ I can’t think what 
makes me cry so easy,” she said as she wiped her eyes. 
“ I cried about the snake this morning. I think it 
must be because my hand keeps me awake nights.” 

Perhaps so. Is your hand so bad ” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; it is very sore.” 

“ What was it about the snake ^ ” asked Ida, look- 
ing nervously about her. She was dreadfully afraid 
of snakes, and was always suspecting them in every 
possible locality. 

“ Oh, there are none here,” said Kit, seeing Ida’s 
movement. I never saw a snake on this hill. It 
was down at the schoolhouse. I think it did scare 
me, for I have felt shaky ever since.” 

“ But what was it } ” persisted Ida. Kit told the 
story in as few words as possible. 

“ You dear, brave little thing ! ” exclaimed Ida. 
** How could you do it ? It makes me shudder to 
think of it.” 

Well, it wasn’t nicey' said Kit emphatically : 

it felt so cold and horrid ! I felt as if I wanted to 
wash my hands a dozen times over.” 

I don’t wonder. But don’t let us talk about it 
any more now,” said Amity. “ I think we had better 
have our tea. I don’t know how you two feel, but I 
am hungry.” 

“I have got some gingerbread and milk, if you 
like it,” said Kit modestly. ** Symantha makes real 
nice gingerbread.” 


164 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“ That will be a fine addition to our feast. Come, 
Ida, let us set the table ; and Kit shall be the com- 
pany, and look on.” 

Never was any thing so pretty, Kit thought, as the 
little china plates and cups produced from the basket ; 
never any thing so wonderful as the spirit-lamp over 
which Amity heated up the tea, or so nice as the 
sandwiches and sponge-cake. When all was ready, 
Ida made a sign to Amity, who bent her head and 
said a simple grace. Kit looked on with awe. It 
was the first time she had ever seen or heard of such 
a thing. The girls ate their supper with abundance 
of jokes and laughter. Kit had not much appetite, 
but she enjoyed the delicate sandwich, and the fra- 
grant cup of tea which helped the headache she had 
carried all day. 

“ Well, we have had a very nice time,” said Amity 
after she had repacked the basket. “ Now, Kitty, 
what can we do for you ? ” 

‘'You have done too much for me now,” replied 
Kit. “ I never had such a nice time in my life. 
Only ” — 

“ Only what ? ” asked Ida. 

“ I wish I had the words of that hymn,” said Kit, 
blushing. “ I think I could sing it sometimes if I 
knew the words. And that about the shadow of the 
wing is so nice: it makes me think of the little 
chickens running under the old hen when it rains, or 
they are scared.” 

“ That is what it means,” said Ida. “ Let me tell 
you a verse in the Bible about that : ‘ He shall cover 
thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt 


TPrO TEA-PARTIES. 


165 


thou trust’ (Ps. xci. 4). You shall have the hymn, 
Kathleen. I will send you a little book which has it 
and a good many more. I will give it to Miss Arm- 
strong to-morrow. Good-night, my dear. I hope we 
shall have another nice picnic some time.” 

When Amity and Ida reached home, they told 
Mrs. Van Zandt what Kit had said, and how she re- 
membered the song. 

“ I do believe she is Kathleen Joyce’s child,” said 
aunt Barbara. “ But how should she come into these 
people’s hands, and why should they wish to keep 
her away from every one ^ ” 

“ I was struck with one thing she said,” remarked 
Ida, — “ that, when she thought of her mother, she 
always got her mixed up with aunt Martha. Do you 
suppose it possible that she can be Mrs. Mallory’s 
child ” 

“ It does not seem likely,” said Mrs. Van Zandt. 
“ Why should they wish to conceal it } ” 

There might be some money in the case,” said 

Ida. 

“ It is possible. I heard that Kathleen’s husband 
became quite wealthy at one time, from some fortu- 
nate speculation.” 

** Did she never write to you after her marriage ? ” 
asked Amity. 

“ Never,” answered Mrs. Van Zandt sadly. 

“ Perhaps her husband would not allow it.” 

“I think that very likely; he never forgave my 
opposition to the match. And some notion of loyalty 
to his memory might have kept her from writing 
afterward.” 


1 66 OLDHAM ; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


“ It seems loyalty to his memory did not prevent 
her marrying again,” said Amity. 

“ That is different, as the children say,” replied 
Mrs. Van Zandt ; “ and, besides, we do not know that 
it is the same person.” 

“ Some people would consider poor Kathleen’s 
conduct as an argument against the adoption of chil- 
dren,” said Amity. 

Mrs. Van Zandt smiled rather sadly. 

“ I have heard of other than adopted daughters 
making runaway matches,” said she. ** Moreover, 
on looking back, I can see where I was myself to 
blame in Kathleen’s case. I indulged and petted her 
beyond all reason. I allowed her to please herself 
in all things, and never taught her to exercise self- 
denial or self-control. Spoiled children are not often 
grateful to their spoilers ; and, indeed, I do not know 
why they should be. Well, my dears, we must keep 
our eyes on this poor little girl, and try to befriend 
her. Whoever she may be, she is one of the Lord’s 
little ones. Perhaps the truth may come out some 
time. I am glad that you have given her at least 
one pleasant afternoon.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 

Kit had hardly reached home when she saw her 
uncle drive into the yard, and presently he entered 
the kitchen with Melissa. Phin’s brow was dark, 
and he had an uneasy expression, as though (so 
Kit said to herself) he had been doing something 
he was ashamed of. Melissa, on the contrary, was 
in excellent spirits, and wore a decided expression 
of triumph. There was something in the way she 
looked at Kit which made the child feel uncomfort- 
able, she did not know why. Phin hardly spoke, 
except to inquire for his wife, till after supper. Then 
he turned to Kit, and asked, not unkindly, — 

“ Well, Kit, how is your hand ? ” 

‘‘It is very sore," said Kit: “I can't use it a bit, 
and it ached all night almost." 

“ What is it about the snake asked Melissa. “ We 
stopped at the tavern, and some one told pa a great 
story about your saving Fletcher’s girl from a snake." 

“ It wasn’t any great story," answered Kit com- 
posedly. “ A copperhead snake twisted round Eddy’s 
leg, and I pulled it off and killed it." 

167 


1 68 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“Yes, that’s a likely yarn,” said Melissa contempt- 
uously. “How did you pull it off, I should like 
to know t and how did you know it was a copper- 
head } ” 

“ I took it with my thumb and finger right behind 
its head, and then stamped on it,” answered Kit. 
“ And Mr. Bassett said it was a copperhead ; but I 
knew it just as soon as I saw it.” 

“ I don’t believe a word of it,” said Melissa. 

“And I don’t care whether you believe it or not,” 
retorted Kit. Somehow Melissa always aroused all 
that was unamiable in the child’s disposition. Melissa 
delighted in teasing her, and found great amusement 
in the fits of passion she sometimes provoked. 

“ Well, well, you were a brave child ; but you had 
no business to run such a risk,” was Phin’s com- 
ment. “ Suppose the snake had bitten you } ” 

“ Then I should have died, I suppose,” replied Kit 
simply. 

“We don’t want you to die just yet,” said Phin 
with some show of feeling. “You must hurry and 
get your hand well.” 

“Why.J*” asked Kit, struck with something un- 
usual in the tone. 

“ Oh, because. Maybe I shall want you to do 
something for me,” answered Phin with assumed 
carelessness. 

“What is the use of mincing matters, pa } ” asked 
Melissa. “ The long and the short of it is, that we 
have got a place in Oldbury for Kit ; and she is go- 
ing to it as soon as her hand gets well, so there ! ” 
and Melissa threw herself back in her chair with a 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR, 1 69 

glance which spoke of satisfied and malicious tri> 
umph. 

“ There will be two words to that,” said Symantha 
dryly. ‘‘ What sort of a place ? ” 

“A place to wash dishes and wait on table at 
Stillwell’s confectionery and dining hall,” answered 
Melissa. They will give her a dollar and a half a 
week, and perhaps more if she earns it.” 

** Oh ! ” said Symantha in the same dry tone. 
“ And what are they going to give me } ” 

“ You ? ” said her father. “ What do you mean } ” 

“ Kit, run out and let in the cows,” said Syman- 
tha. ‘‘ I mean what I say, father,” she continued 
firmly as Kit left the room. “That child is not 
going to any such place as Stillwell’s, or to any place 
at present ; or, if she does, I go with her.” 

“You do.? And who is to take care of Martha 
and the work .? ” 

“ I’m sure I won’t,” said Melissa. 

“ That is your affair,” answered Symantha. “ All 
I know is, that, if Kit goes to work in Oldbury, I go 
too.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” said Phin peevishly. “ What 
is the child to you .? Besides, Melissa is going to 
work in the same place ; and she can see to the child 
if she needs any seeing to.” 

“Melissa will have enough to look after herself 
if she goes to that rum-hole,” returned Symantha. 
“ I should think, if she wants a place, she might at 
least take a decent one.” 

“I am not going into any one’s kitchen when I 
can get four dollars a week and lots of presents by 


170 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL HEATERS, 

standing behind a counter,” said Melissa. ** How- 
ever, you can settle it between you,” she added, ris- 
ing from the table. I am going over to Mariette 
Jewsbury’s. I have been doing some shopping for 
her.” 

“ I think you might stay and help do up the 
work,” said her father. But Melissa only laughed 
as she slammed the door behind her. 

“ See here, father,” said Symantha gravely. “ I 
want to talk about this matter sensibly. You prom- 
ised me, when I gave up every thing — as you know 
I did — to stay with you, and take charge of ma, 
that I should always have my own way about Kit. 
Haven’t I kept my part of the bargain ? ” 

“I don’t deny that you have,” answered Phin, 
‘‘but a man can’t always keep his promises.” 

“You must keep yours in this case, or I shall not 
keep mine,” said Symantha. “Just as surely as Kit 
goes to Oldbury, I shall go too. You know best 
how you would get on without me.” 

“You are a fool,” said her father roughly, but 
evidently moved. “ I tell you we ought to get her 
away from here. She grows more like her mother 
every day. This old lady, Mrs. Van Zandt, is sure 
to see her ; and then there will be an inquiry, and 
all will come out, about the property and all.” 

“Well, let it come. It was foolish to make a 
secret of it in the first place. You are not account- 
able for the property.” 

“That is all you know about it. I tell you the 
child must go.” 

“Then I must go, too, that’s all,” was the calm 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 


17I 


rejoinder. “And there is another thing: I can’t 
spare Kit. She can manage ma better than any- 
body, and sometimes when I can’t do any thing with 
her ; and it is every thing to keep her quiet.” 

“ That is true ; and, if Melissa goes away, you will 
need her help about the work,” said Phin, evidently 
wavering in his purpose more and more as he saw 
the steadfastness of his daughter. “Perhaps you 
had better keep her out of school.” 

“I don’t want to do that. She is getting on 
nicely, and making good friends.” 

“Yes, that is one trouble. She makes too many 
friends.” 

“ It won’t be a trouble if you don’t make a fuss 
about it. Please listen to me, father. I have been a 
dutiful daughter to you, haven’t 1? I don’t set up for 
goodness, but you know whether I have been that.” 

“Yes, my girl, you have,” said her father with 
feeling. “I don’t deny it. You have stuck to me 
through thick and thin, as very few girls would have 
done.” 

“ Then, if I have, give me my way in this,” pleaded 
Symantha. “Let me keep Kit. If I can find the 
right kind of place for her, I will let her go by and 
by; but let me keep her now. Don’t send her 
straight to ruin. Melissa is a woman, and must go 
her own way ; but don’t send the innocent child into 
such a place as Stillwell’s.” And, to her father’s 
amazement and alarm, Symantha burst into tears. 
He had never seen her cry before, since she was a 
child. 

“There, there, my girl, have your own way, and 


172 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS 


don’t cry,” said he. ‘'I didn’t think you cared so 
much about it. Her arm is too sore to do any thing 
now, and I can make that an excuse to Stillwell. 
There, do stop crying. I won’t say any thing more 
about it just now, at any rate.” 

“Thank you, father,” said Symantha, trying to 
check her sobs. 

Phin’s lip twitched. “It is little you have to thank 
me for,” he said in a husky voice. “I’ve thrown 
away your life as well as my own.” 

“You needn’t throw it away, — anymore of it, I 
mean,” said Symantha. “Now we have got this 
place, why can’t you settle down and be steady } 
The farm isn’t a bad one for dairy-work, and the 
cows are good and growing better. I’ll do my share 
if I work my fingers off.” 

“Yes, I dare say you would; but — Well, there 
is no use talking,” said Phin gloomily. “There is no 
such thing as a man’s breaking away from his past 
life. It will come after him. But never mind that. 
You shall have your way about Kit. Poor girl, you 
don’t have much comfort of your life, anyhow.” 

A few minutes afterward, Phin had occasion to go 
to the barn-loft. There was a small, roughly finished 
room in one end, which was a favorite playing-place 
of Kit’s in bad weather. Phin thought he heard a 
voice, and peeped through a knot-hole. What did he 
see and hear } He saw a young child on her knees, 
almost on her face, in an agony of prayer, and heard 
over and over again, — 

“ Oh, don’t, don’t let me go to that dreadful place, 
away from Symantha and Miss Armstrong and all ! 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR, 


173 


Please do make uncle Phin let me stay here, and do 
make him be a good man and believe in the Bible ; 
and please forgive him for burning me, for I don’t 
think he meant to do it.” 

When Phin reached the lower floor, he stamped 
his foot, and muttered as if in anger ; but his anger 
was not directed against Kit. When Melissa, in the 
cours'e of the evening, said something about the 
place at Stillwell’s, she was promptly silenced. 

Kit can’t go now : her arm is too bad. And I 
don’t know that I shall let her go at all. We can’t 
spare the only saint in the family ; eh, Kit } Come 
here.” 

Kit came trembling, for she never knew what to 
expect. 

“So you don’t want to go and earn wages, and 
have all the candy you can eat ? You would rather 
stay with Symantha ? " 

“Yes, I would,” replied Kit, taking courage. “I 
don’t care about candy, and I don’t want to go away. 
Please, uncle Phin, don’t send me.” 

“Well, I won’t, then; not just now, at any rate. 
I thought perhaps you would like a change. Is your 
arm so sore ? ” he asked, as Kit winced on his touch- 
ing it. “Let me see.” 

He undid the arm tenderly enough. It was red 
and angry, and had the peculiar odor of a bad burn. 
Phin looked grave over it. 

“ If this is not better by Monday, we must take 
you to the doctor,” said he, carefully replacing the 
bandage. “ You don’t think I did it on purpose, do 
you, if I did burn the book ? ” 


174 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


‘‘No,’' answered Kit. “Anyhow, I cared more 
about the book than I did about my arm.” 

“ ril get you a prettier book than that some day. 
There, give me a kiss, and go to bed.” 

“ Oh, very well,” said Melissa in an affected tone 
of carelessness, which nevertheless trembled with 
anger. “ I’m sure I don’t care. If pa thinks he can 
afford to quarrel with Stillwell, it is nothing to^me.” 
Phin made no reply, and the matter was dropped. 
Sunday morning rose warm and beautiful, with 
that indescribable atmosphere of tranquil repose 
which belongs to Sunday in the country, and espe- 
cially in New England. By ten o’clock, however, 
the roads were alive with teams of all sorts, from 
Mrs. Van Zandt’s phaeton and Mr. Weston’s roomy 
family carriage, to old Miss Jewsbury’s venerable 
“one-horse shay,” and Mr. Bassett’s long wagon, 
with its straight-backed, splint-bottomed wagon 
chairs, with its crickets and cushions put in here 
and there for the accommodation of the smaller fry, 
for Mrs. Bassett always took her children to church 
by the time they were three years old. Manifold 
were the greetings and hand-shakings as groups of 
friends and relations alighted at the horse-block by 
the door of the old church on the green ; and many 
and kind the inquiries for this or that one detained 
at home by illness in their families. 

“ No, Celia isn’t out this morning,” said Miss 
Delia. “She had one of her bad headaches last 
night, and they always leave her kind of prostrated 
for two or three days. Who is going to preach t ” 

“ I am not sure we shall have any one,” answered 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 


175 


Mr. Weston, to whom the question was addressed. 
“ Mr. Marlin sent word the last minute that he could 
not come ” — 

Just like him,” interposed Miss Delia. 

“ Oh, come, you mustn’t be hard on him. Perhaps 
he couldn’t help it,” said Mr. Weston. “ Dr. Chase 
drove over to Oldbury last night to see if he could 
find any one, but whether he succeeded or not I 
don’t know ; however, we shall soon find out.” 

“Well, I shall be glad when we have a settled 
minister again. — How is your mother, Agnes } I 
see she isn’t out.” 

“ No : Mrs. Richmond and Milly wanted to come, 
so ma staid at home with Cordelia. I am going 
home after Sunday school, so she can come this after- 
noon.” 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Richmond } ” said Miss 
Delia as that lady sailed up the steps attired in a 
silk which had once been rich and handsome, but 
was now decidedly the worse for wear. Mrs. Rich- 
mond had a way of wearing out her old finery in the 
country. She seldom went to church in Oldham, 
or, indeed, anywhere else ; but she had a desire to 
get, as she said, a good look at Mrs. Van Zandt. She 
acknowledged Miss Delia’s greeting with great con- 
descension ; while her daughter did not notice it at 
all, but hastened on to speak to Selina Weston. 

“ Well, Selina, how have you been } I’ve been 
looking out for you all the way. I /lave wanted to 
see you so! You don’t kjiow how often I have 
thought of you.” 

“Yes, you must have thought of me very often,” 


176 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

answered Selina coolly, *^you wrote to me so many 
times.” 

*‘Oh, my dear, you don’t think how many engage- 
ments I have in town. And besides, I don’t know 
how it is, I haven’t any taste for writing letters : 
I can’t express what I feel, and writing seems so 
cold and heartless. But I have thought of you, 
whether you believe it or not. I should have come 
over to your house yesterday, only we were so busy 
getting settled, and poor Cordelia was so tired with 
the journey.” 

Amelia Richmond was one of those people whose 
very voices are suggestive of flattery ; a palaverer^ 
Miss Delia called her, but Miss Delia was a little 
apt to be severe. 

“ Do you sing in the choir now } ” asked Amelia. 
Then, as Selina nodded, “I mean to sit up there this 
morping, and then we can get together in sermon 
time. Oh, you needn’t look so shocked. I don’t 
mean to talk, of course, but just for the pleasure of 
sitting by you.” 

Come, then,” said Selina ; ‘‘ it is time we were in 
our places.” 

'‘Wait just a minute. I want to see the Van 
Zandts come in. Well, they don’t mean to hurt them- 
selves dressing; but I suppose any thing is good 
enough for the country, as ma says. Anyhow, if I 
was heiress to half a million, like Miss Bogardus, 
I would wear something better than satteen.” 

“ Her dress is elegantly made, though,” said 
Selina, feeling all the time that she ought not to be 
discussing such matters in church. “ See that other 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 1 77 

young lady. Doesn’t she look like a cloud in all 
that soft cream-color ? ” 

‘‘You goose! it is only nun’s veiling, and did not 
cost a cent over fifty cents a yard,” said Amelia, 
who estimated every thing by the price. “Well, 
they are no great sight, after all. Here comes the 
preacher, I suppose. Who is he } Some stupid old 
country parson, I dare say.” 

“ Do be quiet,” whispered Selina : “ everybody 
will hear you. Come, we must go up stairs.” 

“On second thoughts, I believe I will sit with 
ma,” said Milly. “I want to get a nearer look at 
Miss Van Zandt’s dress.” 

Selina was not sorry. She had been brought up 
to behave properly in church ; and, greatly under 
Milly’s influence as she was, she could not bring 
herself to believe that whispering and laughing in 
the sanctuary of God were any marks of high breed- 
ing. Selina had come to church more than usually 
disposed to serious thought. She could not, per- 
haps, have given any reason for her state of mind 
that day ; but she felt almost ready to say, once for 
all, that she would take a decided stand, and enlist 
openly under the banner of her rightful King. She 
took her seat quietly, arranged her books, and then 
opened her Bible to look over her lesson. 

Oldham church was a simple, pretty building, quite 
plain, but comfortable, and perfectly adapted to the 
purpose for which it was used, if it had been kept 
in order. But the green blinds were faded, and rusty 
with the dust of many summers. The high white- 
glass windows cast a light which, though dim, was 


1/8 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

by no means “ religious,” as the poet has it ; being 
darkened, not from being “richly dight,” but by suc- 
cessive deposits of dirt and cobwebs. Dust and flue 
lay in corners, yes, even of the chancel itself. The 
chimneys of the kerosene lamps were dark with 
smoke and fly-specks, and the lamps themselves 
looked as if the wicks had not been changed since 
kerosene was invented. Of all the notable house- 
wives who came thither to worship Sunday after 
Sunday, not one, probably, would have allowed such 
a state of things, even in her garret ; yet they saw 
it in the house of God without even a thought of 
incongruity. Now and then somebody would make 
a remark about the dust or the smoke, but that was 
all. It was Mr. ArchimbaH’s business. He was a 
most respectable man and a church-member, and 
nobody liked to hurt his feelings by suggesting to 
him that his business was not attended to. 

But somehow that clean-swept, well-aired school- 
house had waked people up wonderfully. Mr. Bas- 
sett sniffed the air as he entered, and said to himself 
that it was “ stuffy ; ” and his wife saw the dust in 
the corner by the stove as she had never seen it 
before. Patience Fletcher looked at the windows, 
and thought she should really enjoy washing them ; 
and Mrs. Weston had to make an effort to withdraw 
her mind from a calculation relative to the number 
of yards of new carpet which would be required for 
the chancel and aisles. It is to be feared that more 
than one feminine mind was a little distraught dur- 
ing the service. 

But dust and cobwebs and carpet were all forgot- 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR, 


179 


ten when the preacher began his sermon. He was 
an old gentleman, very plain and quiet in appearance ; 
and his voice, as he gave out the text, was somewhat 
low and tremulous: “Come up hither, and I will 
show thee things which must be hereafter” (Rev. 
iv. i). He had not spoken five minutes when the 
attention of the whole congregation was fixed as one 
man. It was not the brilliancy of his style, which 
was simple with the simplicity of much reading and 
study : it was his intense earnestness, and his evi- 
dent deep conviction of the awful truths which he 
set forth. The discourse was upon the “ last things,” 
— death and judgment, hell and heaven. Even poor, 
frivolous Mrs. Blandy forgot to study the dress of 
the strangers in church, and almost resolved that she 
would think more of these matters. To many of the 
congregation, the words were as the bread of life. 
To say truth, Oldham had not of late been greatly 
favored in the matter of preaching. Mr. Martin, the 
late rector, had prided himself on being liberal and 
broad in his views. A clergyman, he thought, should 
keep up with the interest of the day ; so he talked 
much of science and criticism, and gave his hearers 
hashes of certain monthly magazines, slightly warmed 
and mildly seasoned with Scripture quotations, or 
preached mild little moral essays, adapted, as he was 
wont to say, to that class of minds which make up 
most country congregations. In truth, Mr. Martin 
felt himself thrown away in Oldham ; and he did not 
make things any more pleasant for himself by saying 
so, and by his continual complaints of the hardships 
of his position. He had at last given up that posi- 


l8o OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

tion for the place of assistant in a large city church ; 
but the large city church had not found Mr. Martin 
any more congenial than he had found the people of 
Oldham, and he was at present living at home with 
his mother. 

But this present preacher spoke of things which 
every one wished to hear. Agnes Gleason drank in 
every word, only wishing that her mother was there. 
Selina listened intently, forgetting for the time to 
wonder whether some one did not think Myra Bas- 
sett’s voice better than hers. She had naturally a 
fine taste, and she had read good books. She ap- 
preciated the finished elegance of the discourse, 
but that was not all. As the preacher, with the 
solemnity of deep conviction, set forth ‘‘the things 
that must be hereafter,” Selina felt that these were 
indeed the real things which make life worth living ; 
which give to worldly things all the significance 
which they possess ; which must have a being after 
all the triumphs and treasures, the battles and vic- 
tories, of this world, are but forgotten dreams. She 
made up her mind that she would no longer live as 
she had done ; she would strive to live as a Chris- 
tian should, to fulfil the vows of her baptism : and 
then — here the little mean bosom snake of envy 
reared its head — then father and mother would think 
as much of her as they did of Lizzy. Selina was not 
to blame for the voice of the tempter any further 
than that she had given him encouragement before. 
She might have silenced him by refusing to listen 
to him, but she did not. She began thinking how 
much more devoted she would be than Lizzy had 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR, l8l 

ever been, how she would teach others, how she 
would influence Milly Richmond, and make her a 
Christian, and, perhaps, go on a mission, as Miss 
Armstrong had done. 

“But I won’t come home the first minute I get 
sick. No, indeed ! I will die on the field of battle,” 
she said to herself. And then she recollected her- 
self with a blush, and found she had lost the thread 
of the discourse. 

“I won’t be so silly again,” she said to herself. 
“I believe I am always thinking about myself, as 
father says.” She managed to elude Milly when she 
came down, and went straight into Sunday school. 

“Wasn’t that a noble sermon?” whispered Faith 
as Agnes and Selina came into the class. “Don’t 
you wish we could have him all the time ? ” 

“Yes, indeed. Who is he ? ” 

“Dr. — Somebody from New York, I did not 
catch the name. See, Mrs. Van Zandt is speaking 
to him.” 

“ I wonder what we shall do for a teacher,” said 
Agnes. “I am so sorry Miss Celia isn’t here. I 
wanted to see her particularly.” 

“ Perhaps Miss Armstrong will teach us,” observed 
Faith. 

“ No, she won’t. The doctor has forbidden her 
teaching in Sunday school this summer,” replied 
Selina. “ See there, girls ; father is speaking to Mrs. 
Van Zandt. I wonder if he is asking her to hear 
us. I wish she would. She is so sweet-looking.” 

“You will have your desire, then,” said Agnes, 
“ for here' she comes.” 


1 82 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** O mother, how I wish you had been in church ! ’’ 
said Agnes after Sunday school, coming into the 
room where Mrs. Gleason was pouring out an after- 
dinner cup of tea for her boarders. “ We did have 
such a noble sermon ! " 

“Is that so?” asked Mrs. Gleason. “Mrs. Rich- 
mond did not like it.” 

“You see, it is not the kind of preaching I am 
used to,” said Mrs. Richmond in a tone which al- 
ways seemed to say, “See how superior I am.” “In 
the city one hears such a different style. You 
should hear Dr. Madison, — that is an intellectual 
feast, though I admit that he is rather old-fashioned. 
And such a congregation as he has ! You can’t hire 
any kind of a pew for less than five hundred dollars.” 

“ It was Dr. Madison who preached this morning,” 
said Agnes quietly, but with a gleam of mischief in 
her eyes. 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Milly. “ A likely story, indeed, 
that Dr. Madison would be preaching in a place like 
this ! ” 

“It could not be {?ur Dr. Madison,” added Mrs. 
Richmond. “Very likely that might be his name, 
however: it is not an uncommon one.” 

“All I know is,” said Agnes, “that Mrs. Van 
Zandt taught our class. Dr. Madison came into 
Sunday school, and Mrs. Van Zandt introduced him 
to us. He said a few words on the lesson. After- 
ward I asked Mrs. Van Zandt where he preached, 
and she said in St. Timothy’s Church in New York. 
She goes there, so she ought to know.” 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mrs. Richmond, “ I am so very 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 


183 


short-sighted, and I am sure the dear doctor did not 
do himself justice this morning. But he is growing 
old, poor dear man.” 

“ Well, I never wish to hear a better sermon than 
he gave us this morning,” said Agnes. 

“You are a judge, no doubt,” sneered Milly ; 
“ you have had so many opportunities of forming a 
taste.” 

“ It is not a matter of taste exactly,” said Agnes, 
getting hold of her temper, which was in some dan- 
ger of escaping from her control. “Dr. Madison’s 
sermon was just what I wanted to hear. It went 
straight to the right spot, as poor Aunt Betsy says 
about her coffee. And what he said in Sunday 
school was so nice. He did not talk baby-talk, as 
some do, or tell funny stories, but spoke as if the 
children were rational beings. You must go this 
afternoon, mother. Do get ready. I will do up the 
work.” 

“ I believe I will go too,” said Milly. “ I want to 
see whether it was really Dr. Madison.” 

“I thought you would stay with Cordelia,” re- 
marked Mrs. Richmond. “ I want to lie down a while. 
My head aches very badly.” 

“Oh, she won’t want any thing,” replied Milly 
carelessly. “You can just as well lie down in her 
room.” And, without saying more, she went away 
to get ready for church. Her mother looked after 
her with a sigh. She often had occasion to deplore 
Milly’s selfishness, but it never occurred to her to 
think that it was the direct result of her own training. 

“ I will stay with Cordelia, Mrs. Richmond,” said 


184 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Agnes. ‘‘I will put the dishes to soak, and wash 
them after supper ; and you can lie down in my room, 
and have a good sleep. I am sure you need it.’* 

This was something of a sacrifice for Agnes. She 
had been looking forward to a quiet afternoon with 
her Bible. She was fond of Cordelia, and sorry for 
her ; but the poor, feeble child was often fretful and 
hard to please, and Agnes sometimes thought she 
invented wants to keep her attendants from sitting 
still. But Agnes had a new principle of action with- 
in, which made her apply to herself the Golden Text 
she had recited that very morning, — ‘‘For even 
Christ pleased not Himself.” 

“ Thank you, my dear ; you are really very kind,” 
said Mrs. Richmond. Hard, worldly woman as she 
was, nothing touched her so quickly as kindness 
shown to her sick child. “But I don’t like to de- 
prive you of the pleasure of hearing your favorite 
preacher.” 

“Oh, I shall hear him again some time,” answered 
Agnes : “ he is going to stay at Oldfield all summer. 
And, besides, I did not mean to go to church this 
afternoon, at any rate. My room is shady and cool, 
and I hope you will have a nice nap. Don’t you 
think I might draw Cordelia out on the veranda 
It is sheltered on that side of the house, and the air 
is lovely.” 

“ I should be very glad if you can persuade her to 
go out,” said Mrs. Richmond. “ The doctor says she 
must have as much fresh air as possible, but it is 
hard to get her to move.” 

“You will have your hands full,” said Mrs. Glea- 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 1 85 

son as Agnes helped her to put on her shawl. ‘‘ The 
poor child is worse than I ever saw her.” 

Cross } ” asked Agnes. 

‘‘No, not exactly, but nervous and full of fancies. 
It seems she did not want to come away from home. 
She says she knows she shall never be well, and it is 
just tormenting her for nothing.” 

“I believe she is right there,” said Agnes. “She 
has failed a great deal this winter. I wonder Her 
mother doesn’t see it.” 

“Folks can’t see what they won’t see,” was Mrs. 
Gleason’s remark. “Perhaps Cordelia may go to 
sleep, and then you can have a nice time reading.” 

But Cordelia had no mind to go to sleep. She 
had always been a delicate child, and was now fading 
away in one of those mysterious “ declines ” for 
which no reason can be given ; suffering much at 
times from neuralgia, and always from that nervous 
weakness which is still harder to bear. 

“Where is mother.?” was her first question. 

“She has a bad headache, and has gone to lie 
down. You can stand it with me a little while, can’t 
you .? ” asked Agnes cheerfully. 

“Why don’t you go to church?” was the next 
sharp inquiry. 

“ Because I staid at home to let mother go, and to 
take care of you.” 

“ I am sure that was very good of you,” was the 
somewhat unexpected answer. “ I don’t think I am 
very entertaining company.” 

“ We don’t expect sick people to be entertaining,” 
said Agnes. “But, Cordelia, I wish you would let 


1 86 OLDHAM ; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


me put you in your chair, and take you out of doors. 
You don’t know how lovely it is.” 

Cordelia objected at first, but suffered herself to 
be persuaded. Agnes wrapped her up carefully, and, 
putting her into her wheeled chair, drew her out 
upon the broad old-fashioned “stoop” before the 
front-door, which commanded a lovely view of field 
and mountain. 

“Isn’t this nice.?” said she as she settled her 
charge in the pleasantest, shadiest corner, and ar- 
ranged her wraps, for Agnes was a born nurse. 
“Look, you can see the people going into church.” 

“I wish I could go,” said Cordelia with a deep 
sigh. “ But I shall never go anywhere again : I know 
that very well, for all they say about my getting bet- 
ter.” Agnes did not answer, except by a kiss upon 
the pale forehead. She knew how to be silent when 
there was nothing to say. She brought her Bible, 
and sat down on the step by Cordelia ; and the two 
were quiet for some time. 

“Who is that very dark, very old-looking man 
walking up the street.?” asked Cordelia at last. 
“There, he is just going up the church steps.” 

“That is old Abner Kettle,” answered Agnes. 
“He is the last full-blooded Indian left anywhere 
about here. He is a hundred at the very least. We 
know that, because he remembers the Revolution 
quite well. He has a very nice little place of his 
own over on Indian Hill, and works in his garden as 
well as any one, besides walking to church every 
Sunday. We must ask him up here some day. You 
would like to hear him talk.’* 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 


187 


“ And I am only fifteen, fifteen my next birthday, 
and I shall never walk again anywhere,” said Cor- 
delia in a tone of deep sadness. “ But there, I won’t 
bother you. Read your book in peace. What is it.?” 

** The Bible,” answered Agnes. “ I was going to 
look over my Sunday-school lesson, but I can do it 
another time if you would rather talk.” 

“I don’t mind,” said Cordelia. She was silent 
a while, and then spoke again, — 

** Agnes, isn’t there a chapter in the New Testa- 
ment somewhere about ‘many mansions,’ or some 
such thing as that .? ” * 

“Yes: in the fourteenth chapter of St. John’s 
Gospel. Shall I read it to you .? ” 

“Yes, please.” 

Agnes read the chapter. She had a pleasant voice, 
and read well and reverently. It seemed to her as 
if the wonderful words had never seemed half so 
wonderful before. 

“Thank you,” said Cordelia when she had fin- 
ished. She was silent a little, and then said, with 
a kind of abruptness, — 

“Agnes, how should you feel if you knew you 
were dying, as I am .? ” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Agnes. “ I never was 
dangerously ill a day in my life. But what makes 
you think you are dying, Cordelia .? The doctors do 
not say so, and your mother thinks you are better.” 

“What do you think.?” asked Cordelia with a kind 

* This may seem improbable, but I have met with worse cases. An elderly 
lady asked me if “ Do as you would be done by,” or something like it, was not 
in the Bible. This same lady, by the way, could talk quite glibly about “ the 
latest results of German criticism.” 


1 88 OLDHAM; OD, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

of fierceness. Then, as Agnes did not reply, she said 
more gently, — 

‘‘ Do tell me just what you think. I can’t say a 
word to mother, because she cries so ; and Milly only 
laughs, and says, ‘Oh, you are notional.’ Do tell 
me.” 

“I think you are not as well as you were last 
summer,” answered Agnes. 

“ But now, suppose I were your sister,” persisted 
Cordelia, “ would you have any hopes of me t ” 

“No,” answered Agnes, “I don’t think I should.” 

“Thank you,” said Cordelia. She was silent a 
little, and then asked, — 

“ Agnes, would you be afraid to die ? ” 

“I don’t know,” answered Agnes. “People are 
not always afraid. There was Jenny Bassett, Myra’s 
cousin, who died last summer of consumption : she 
had no more fear than you have of coming out here. 
And it was the same with young Mrs. Fletcher.” 

“ But it is so dreadful,” said the poor girl, shudder- 
ing, “to go away from every one you have ever 
known, out into another world, one doesn’t know 
where ; and that fearful judgment !” 

“ I will tell you what I think, Cordelia, if you will 
try to be quiet, and not agitate yourself,” said Agnes. 
“ I am only a girl like yourself, you know.” 

“Never mind. Tell me what you think.” 

“ It is just like this,” said Agnes : “if we are chil- 
dren of God, we don’t go out into a strange world 
among strangers. We go home to our Father’s 
house, as the chapter says, where He is, and where 
our Saviour has gone to prepare a place for us. We 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 


189 


don’t know very much about it, to be sure; some- 
times I wish He had told us more. But we know 
that there will be no more pain, or sorrow, or death ; 
that our Lord will be there, and He will wipe away 
all tears from our eyes. So we shall not go among 
strangers. And, as to the judgment, I don’t think 
we need fear that, because He says — See here.” 
Agnes turned to the first chapter of the First Epistle 
of John, and read, — 

‘If we confess our sins. He is faithful and just to 
forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all un- 
righteousness.’ 

“ And there are other places where it tells of our 
sins being blotted out, and remembered no more. I 
don’t think we need fear the judgment, after that.” 

“ But that is for Christians, and I am not a Chris- 
tian.” 

“But you may be, Cordelia.” 

“ I don’t know how.” 

“ The Bible tells us. We have only to believe on 
the Lord Jesus Christ, and we shall be saved.” 

“That seems very simple and easy,” said Cordelia 
doubtfully. 

“That is what St. Paul said to the jailer when he 
asked what he should do to be saved, — believe on 
Him, and take Him for your Saviour ; that is all. 
Oh, do try! You don’t know what a difference it 
will make. I am not fit to teach you, — I have only 
just begun myself,” said Agnes, blushing. “ But I 
know how different every thing looks to me from 
what it did a week ago to-day. But, Cordelia, doesn’t 
your minister ever come to see you ? ” 


1 90 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


“ We haven’t any, not really,” answered Cordelia. 

Mother and Milly don’t belong to any church, and 
they don’t go anywhere regularly. They just run 
about from one church to another to hear any famous 
preacher, or for the sake of the music. A lady we 
know — Miss Little — did use to talk to me some- 
times when I was first sick, and she used to read 
good books to me ; but mother did not like it. Last 
winter I wanted to see a minister, but she said he 
would only put gloomy thoughts in my head." As 
if the gloomy thoughts did not come of themselves ! ” 
I hope I have not hurt you,” said Agnes. 

“No, indeed. You have , done me good,” said 
Cordelia. “You don’t know what a comfort it is to 
open my mind to some one. But, Agnes, are you 
sure that is all, — just believing.?” 

“I am as sure as that I sit here.” 

“ But why doesn’t every one do it, then .? ” 

“Well, you see, it involves a good many things. 
People have pet sins that they don’t like to give up.” 

“That would be just my trouble,” said Cordelia 
thoughtfully. “ I know I am horridly cross and self- 
ish a great many times ; and I try not to be, but I 
always get beaten sooner or later.” 

“There is just where the help comes in,” said 
Agnes eagerly. “ If you ask Him, He will give you 
help to conquer those very things. Of course, we 
can’t do it alone; but St. Paul says, "I can do all 
things through Christ who strengtheneth me.’” 

“ How much you know about the Bible ! ” 

“I ought to; I have had pains enough taken to 

* A literal fact. 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. I9I 

teach me. But, Cordelia, I dare say Dr. Madison 
will come to see you if you ask him. He is going 
to stay in Oldfield all summer.” 

“I will speak to mother about it. Agnes, you 
don’t know how much good you have done me.” 
She coughed as she spoke, and Agnes’s quick eye 
saw that she was tired. 

Don’t talk any more now,” said she. “ Let me 
turn your chair back, so that you can rest ; and then 
I will read to you, and perhaps you will go to sleep. 
What would you like to hear } ” 

I would rather hear the Bible than any thing,” 
replied Cordelia, “ I know so little about it. Begin 
the Gospel of St. John.” 

Agnes turned the reclining-chair into a comfort- 
able couch, added another shawl to Cordelia’s cover- 
ings, and sat down to read. Cordelia listened at 
first with earnest attention ; but by degrees her eye- 
lids drooped, and presently her soft, regular breathing 
showed that she was asleep. 

“ How like death she looks ! ” thought Agnes, as 
she gazed at the white cheek and almost transparent 
eyelids. “ How can they think she is better ? Well, 
at any rate, she has freed her mind, poor child. I 
am so glad I staid with her ! ” 

Meantime Amelia Richmond had been engaged in 
a very different fashion. 

'‘Why, Milly, I didn’t expect to see you to-day,” 
said Selina as they met at the church door. “ How 
quickly you slipped away! I meant to ask you to 
come into Sunday school.” 

“Thank you,” said Milly. “ I don’t go to Sunday 


192 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

school, and I don’t imagine I should gain very much 
from your dear cousin Celia’s instructions.” 

“You might,” returned Selina. “Father says 
cousin Celia is one of the best Bible scholars he 
ever knew. But we had Mrs. Van Zandt this morn- 
ing. Cousin Celia is not well.” 

“What, the old lady ^ I would have staid if I had 
known that,” said Milly. “ What was she like ^ ” 

“I thought she was lovely,” answered Selina. 
“She introduced our class to Dr. Madison, and he 
spoke to us so nicely. Didn’t you like him this 
morning } ” 

“ Not so very much,” answered Milly. “ I thought 
it was a canting, gloomy kind of sermon. I like in- 
tellectual preaching, about science and art, and so 
on. 

“ We don’t go to church to hear about science and 
art, but to hear the gospel,” said Selina. 

“Oh, come, now, don’t yotir begin,” said Milly. 
“Has Miss Armstrong got you under her thumb 
already ^ She might well say she was coming on a 
mission to the heathen.” 

“I don’t believe she said any such thing,” re- 
turned Selina, coloring. 

“I happen to know that she did. However, it 
does not matter. I ought not to have repeated it, I 
suppose, only I don’t like to see people imposed upon. 
Miss Van Zandt’s dress is not nun’s veiling, Selina,” 
added Milly, with a sudden change of subject, as 
Mrs. Van Zandt’s carriage came in sight. “It is 
real China crape. I should not think she would wear 
such an expensive dress to church in the country. 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 


193 


especially as they are not rich ; but I dare say her 
aunt gave it to her.” 

** I must go to my seat,” said Selina, feeling, for 
once, a desire to get rid of her companion. 

I will go with you,” said Milly. ‘‘ I like to sit 
up stairs : one can see every one so nicely.” 

Selina was not pleased ; but she had so often asked 
Milly to sit with her, that she did not know how to 
decline her company. Milly made herself very much 
at home, rather to the annoyance of Myra Bassett, 
with whom she was no favorite ; and she indulged 
herself very freely in making remarks upon the con- 
gregation. 

“ Do look at that woman in the blue bonnet with 
green and red flowers. I wonder where her milli- 
ner lives. I should like to employ her. Who is 
she.?” 

“ Mrs. Bettys. Do be quiet, Milly.” 

Milly was silent for a moment, and then began 
again. 

Do look at Mrs. Chase. What a figure she does 
make of herself ! With all her husband’s practice, 
she might dress decently, one would think. Who are 
those girls in white, Selina.? I never noticed them 
before.” 

“The Jewsburys. They live in our district, but 
they hardly ever come to church. They were at the 
Bible class Thursday night, I remember.” 

“ Oh, they are some of Miss Armstrong’s heathen 
converts, I suppose. She means to get you all under 
her thumb.” 

This was a little too much for Myra’s patience. 


194 OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

She leaned forward, and said in an energetic whis- 
per, — 

‘‘ Miss Richmond, will you please be quiet ? We are 
not used to hearing such talk in the house of God.” 

Milly tossed her head; but she saw the eyes of 
some of the elders fixed upon her, and she did not 
venture to say any more. All through the sermon, 
which was a continuation of the one in the morning, 
she did her best to distract Selina’s attention by 
writing notes and passing candy. Myra Bassett was 
furious. With all her good qualities, she had not her 
tongue under the most perfect government in the 
world ; and, the moment service was over, she turned 
upon Selina. 

“ The next time you bring a stranger into the choir, 
Selina, I hope it will be some one who knows how 
to behave at least like a lady. I never was more 
ashamed in my life. I wonder what your father 
will say. It was a regular disgrace.” 

“ Don’t distress yourself. Miss Bassett,” said Milly, 
taking the words out of Selina’s mouth, as she was 
about to answer. “You are not responsible for my 
conduct. I hope every one could see that I do not 
belong here.” 

“I hope so too,” returned Myra. “I should be 
sorry if they could not.” 

“ Do be quiet, Myra,” said Selina, “ What a fuss 
you do make about nothing ! I should think scold- 
ing and quarrelling in church was as bad as any thing 
Milly or I did. If you had been attending to the 
sermon, you would not have known any thing about 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR, 


195 


Myra blushed. She felt, that, though her cause 
was just, she had put herself in the wrong by her 
hasty speech. She began to say something more, 
but Milly interrupted her. 

Oh, you need not apologize : I shall npt bear 
malice,” said she with a lofty tone of condescen- 
sion. “ We all know you are a well-meaning 
young woman, but you should think before you speak. 
When you have had more opportunities, you will 
know better. “ Come, Selina;” and she drew Selina 
away, leaving Myra wondering how she had been put 
down, and why she should be so angry at being called 
a yoioig woman. She did not consider that the sim- 
plest epithet may be made abusive by the way it is 
applied. 

“ Didn’t I shut her mouth nicely } ” said Amelia, 
laughing, when they reached the stairs. She won’t 
begin on me again in a hurry.” 

“ Well, she was right,” said Selina with some 
spirit ; “ I was ashamed, myself. What did make you 
act so, Milly } ” 

‘‘What did I do.?” asked Milly. “Are you going 
to set up too .? But I see how it is,” she added. 
“ They have fairly conquered you, and broken your 
spirit among them, so that you don’t care for me 
any more. The next thing, mother Weston will say, 
‘ Selina, you must not go with Milly any more ; ’ 
and then farewell to our friendship. You will never 
speak to me again.” 

Selina did not quite know what to say to this. She 
knew in truth that mother Weston did not approve 
of the intimacy. 


196 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

‘'You will be setting up to be very pious next,” 
continued Milly, as Selina did not reply. “ We shall 
hear of you speaking in meeting ; perhaps prepar- 
ing to go on a mission, like dear Miss Armstrong.” 

Selina blushed, and Milly saw that her random shot 
had hit the mark. This conversation had taken 
place in a little recess under the gallery stairs, where 
the girls were out of sight. At that moment Selina 
heard her father’s voice calling her, and went for- 
ward ; Milly remaining where she was. 

“ Are you too tired to walk home, Selina ? ” 

“No, father : I should like it.” 

“ Then I shall take Mrs. West. Don’t hurry, there 
is plenty of time. Go round by the brook, and you 
will have it shady all the way.” 

“Are you going to walk.? Good! I will go with 
you,” said Milly, joining Selina on the green before 
the church. 

“ I am going round by the brook,” remarked Selina. 
“It will be longer for you.” 

“I don’t care for that, unless you want to get rid 
of me. If you do, say so,” returned Milly. Selina 
would have liked to say so, but she had not the 
courage ; and the two walked on in silence for a few 
minutes. Then Milly began again : — 

“ So you really mean to give me up, Selina ? ” 

“ I have never said so,” replied Selina. 

“Actions speak louder than words,” said Milly 
with a si^h. “Well, I suppose it is all right. You 
are dependent on Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and of 
course you ought to please them. Oh, yes, it is all 
right ; but I am sorry. I thought we were going to 


THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 


197 


have such a nice time this summer ; but, if you are 
going to set up for a saint — However, you ought 
to please Mr. and Mrs. Weston, of course.” 

I have never said either that I was going to give 
you up, or to set up for a saint,” said Selina some- 
what angrily. “ I don’t know what you want me to 
do, Amelia.” 

“ I want you to be your own independent self, and 
not take all your opinions — your likes and dislikes, 
and all the rest — from some one else; no, not even 
from Mrs. Weston or dear Miss Armstrong,” replied 
Milly. “If Mrs. Weston were your own mother, it 
would be different, though even then I think you 
would have a right to a mind of your own. But come ; 
as you say, we won’t quarrel. I do hope you won’t give 
me up, Selina. You are the only friend I have. I 
never can get on with Agnes Gleason ; and Cordelia 
is worse than nobody, poor thing. I wanted mother 
to leave her at the Sanitarium with a nurse, and 
take me to Newport or Saratoga, where I could have 
some advantages of society ; but every thing is Cor- 
delia with her. She would put me in the stove and 
burn me up to warm Cordelia’s feet. But you won’t 
give me up, will you, Selina ? I will promise not to 
say a word against religion. I am sure your mother 
would do me a great deal of good if she would only 
be kind to me. Come, now, say you will be friends.” 

What could Selina do but say she would always 
be friends with Milly ? The two girls sealed their 
league on the spot with a sentimental embrace ; 
and Milly began at once to exert her powers of con- 
versation, which were not small, for the benefit of 


198 OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

her companion. She began with a description of a 
grand ceremony she had attended at the Roman- 
Catholic cathedral. From that, the divergence was 
easy to the park, and from thence to various gayeties, 
ending with a masked ball in which Milly had sus- 
tained a prominent character, had danced a minuet, 
and, according to her own account, had been the ob- 
served of all observers. When Selina reached home, 
all serious thoughts were completely dissipated. Her 
head was full of visions of that gay world in which 
Milly moved, and her heart of murmurs that she 
should be so wholly shut out of it. When she re- 
tired to her room after tea, it was not, as usual, to 
study her lesson for the next Sunday. The Bible 
lay untouched ; while she indulged in dreams in 
which her own mother figured in the character of a 
lady of wealth and fashion, whom circumstances had 
compelled to abandon her child for a time, but who 
now turned up to claim her, and re-instate her in the 
splendor to which she was born. The birds of the air 
had picked up the seed pretty thoroughly. 


CHAPTER XL 

NEW PROJECTS. 

Kit’s arm was better on Monday, but nothing 
more was said about her going to Oldbury. Syman- 
tha had an argument with Melissa on the subject of 
the place at Stillwell’s, but Melissa was not to be 
moved. She knew her own mind, she said, and she 
could take care of herself. Symantha need not be 
troubled about her. She gathered her possessions 
together on Monday morning, and departed. The 
two sisters had never got on well together, and Me- 
lissa did not express any regret at parting. She did 
not speak to Kit ; and Kit, on her part, made no se- 
cret of her pleasure on the occasion. Melissa had 
been her tyrant and torment ever since she could 
remember. It was she who had destroyed her cher- 
ished fragment of the Pilgrim’s Progress,” and had 
instigated Phin to the burning of her beloved Testa- 
ment. She felt sure that the proposition to send 
her to Stillwell’s had come from Melissa in the first 
place. She did not feel safe till the wagon contain- 
ing Melissa and her uncle was finally out of sight, 
and then it was with a rejoicing heart that she began 
to get ready for school. 


199 


200 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL V/ATERS. 

Well, Kit, I suppose you are perfectly happy to 
think that you are going to school this morning, 
instead of in the wagon going to Oldbury,” said 
Symantha. 

‘‘Ain’t you glad too ? ” asked Kit. 

“Yes, I am. I don’t want you to go to any place 
just now; certainly not there, to sell whiskey and 
beer.” 

“I never would do it,” said Kit firmly. “They 
should cut me to pieces first. I hate the very name 
of drink. I don’t believe uncle Phin would ever be 
ugly to me if he let the beer alone.” 

“ I believe you are right,” said Symantha, sighing. 
“ I wish all the beer in the world were poured into 
the sea.” 

“Then the fishes would all get drunk,” replied 
Kit, laughing. Then, with a sudden change of tone, 
as she glanced at Symantha’s face, “ Don’t you want 
me to stay at home this morning.^ You will be 
alone all day.” 

“ I thought you liked to go to school better than 
any thing,” observed Symantha. 

“Well, I do; but I would stay at home to help 
you.” 

“ I know you would, but I would rather you went 
to school. I want you to learn all you can, now you 
have such a good chance.” 

“I wish uncle Phin would let me go to Sunday 
school, as the other girls do,” said Kit. “There is 
not a girl in our school but me who does not go to 
Sunday school, and they get such nice books. I 
don’t see what harm it would do.” 


NEW PROJECTS. 


201 


Nor I,” answered Symantha. ‘*You should go, 
Kit, if it depended upon me ; but I don’t think you 
had better say any thing about it at present. I am 
sure pa would not let you go, and it would only make 
a fuss. Make the best of your day-school, and learn 
all you can. There, good-by.” 

Symantha kissed Kit, — an unusual demonstration 
of affection, — and the child went on her way with 
a light heart. She was happier than she had ever 
been before in her short life. She was used to the 
shadows of her home, — to her aunt’s wretched state 
of health, and her uncle’s varying humors, and 
Symantha’s occasional impatience, — and did not 
mind these things as another child would have done. 
She loved with a kind of passion the beautiful things 
about her; all the more, that the last two years of 
her life had been spent in a wretched street of a 
wretched Western town, which had been left behind 
by an exhausted mine and an abortive railroad. She 
loved her school and her teacher, and found keen 
pleasure in the acquisition of knowledge for its own 
sake. And, above and beyond all, she rejoiced in her 
new-found inheritance in the kingdom of heaven. 
She had received it, indeed, as a little child, without 
a doubt or question. She could never be quite for- 
lorn or alone again : for, let what would happen, she 
had a Father and a Saviour in heaven, who would 
never leave nor forsake her ; and a home, sure to be 
hers some time, where she should never be unhappy, 
and never do wrong again. For there were times 
when the sense of sin pressed heavily upon her. 
She had never known that many things were wi*ong 


202 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

which now appeared very dreadful to her. Like 
older people, she found herself hindered by “the 
bands of those sins which, by her frailty, she had 
committed,” and from which she longed to be re- 
leased. The temper would rise at any obstacle or 
annoyance; and the hard names and wicked words 
came to her mind, and fell from her lips, almost una- 
wares. Now she felt these thing to be sins, and 
grieved over them ; but there was comfort even 
there. That same Father in heaven, whose name 
and nature had been so lately made known to her, 
hated sin ; but then. He loved her, and therefore, 
Kit reasoned. He would help her to get rid of what 
He hated. It was a very happy little girl who 
went singing over the hill-pasture that morning. 

Three or four weeks went on very quietly in Old- 
ham, and especially in the red-schoolhouse district. 
In the village, indeed, there was a little stir, occa- 
sioned by the startling proposition brought forward 
by the church-wardens, in a parish-meeting called for 
the purpose in the parlor of the hotel ; namely, that 
the church should be cleaned and painted before the 
arrival of the new minister. If it had been proposed 
to blow up the church with dynamite, some people 
could not have been more astonished ; and the most 
astonished of all was Mr. Archimball, the shoe- 
maker, who had been sexton for years. He had, for 
the most part, confined his duties to ringing the bell, 
making fires in winter, and dusting the great Bible 
and other books, and sometimes the pulpit-cushions, 
on a Sunday, and filling and trimming the lamps when 
they absolutely refused to burn any more without. 


JVEJV PROJECTS. 


203 


‘'Such a lot of new-fangled notions!” said he 
sulkily. “Always the way when women-folks take 
hold of things. What’s the matter, anyhow } ” 

“The matter is, that the church is dirty, and needs.' 
cleaning,” said Mr. Weston. 

“Where’s the dirt.?” snarled the sexton. For 
answer Mr. Weston pointed to the windows. 

“ They are kind of cloudy, that’s a fact/ sad Mr. 
Andrews, the storekeeper. 

Kind of cloudy! I should think so,”' sai his 
wife. “ I wonder what you would say, Mr. Avrirews, 
to see such windows in your own house.” 

“Well, you know, Harriet Anne, you ' ^ver 
thought of the windows yourself till last Sunda)” 
said Mr. Andrews mildly. 

“ That’s true, and more shame for me. Anyh'ip\. 
I’m ready to do my share of the work.” r, 

“ And so am I,” “ And I,” added several voices rand 
more than one notable lady felt a thrill of joy cX the 
thought of a house-cleaning upon so large a sca.e. 

“ The sisters seem to be all sound upon the clean- 
ing question,” said Mr. Weston, smiling. 

“The women-folks are for any thing that will 
make a fuss, and give ’em a chance to gossip,” mut- 
tered the sexton. 

“Now about the painting,” continued Mr. Weston, 
without noticing the interruption. 

“That’s another thing,” said Mr. Blandy. “That 
will cost money.” 

“ Most things do,” said Dr. Chase. 

“And how are you going to raise it.? that’s the 
question,” continued Mr. Blandy. 


OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


‘‘Yes, that’s the p’int,” said Aunt Betsy. ‘'How 
are you going to raise it ? ” 

By subscription among ourselves,” answered Mr. 
Weston. “ I have made a calculation that two hun- 
dred dollars will cover the whole expense.” 

‘‘Two hundred dollars is a good deal of money,” 
^id Mr. Andrews. “Still, if every one will do 
his hare — Would that cover the blinds, think, 
squie ^ 

“^es, T think so. As you say, if everyone will 
do -leiTjf share, the thing can be accomplished ; not 
otlrwifee.” 

Y^g, but you’ll see they won’t,” said the sexton. 
“Jt’s one thing to stir up a lot of women, and 
another to get the men started.” 

^T' lVe have made a good beginning already, I am 
hjppy to say,” remarked Mr. Weston, taking up a 
pajicr which lay before him on the table. “Dr. 
Chase' has headed the list with twenty-five dollars ; 
another person has put down the same ; and the 
ladies at the stone house will give us twenty, and 
more if it is needed.” 

“ Seventy dollars ; that is a good beginning,” said 
Mr. Bassett. “Put me down ten anyhow. Squire 
Weston. I will do more if I can, but that freshet 
which knocked down my dam has made it a kind of 
an expensive year for me.” 

“ Put me down five,” said Mr. Fletcher. 

“ Eighty-five dollars. Who next } ” 

“My sister and myself will give five dollars be- 
tween us,” said Miss Celia. 

“ Seems to me that’s a good deal for you,” said 


JVEIV PROJECTS. 


205 


Mrs. Burr ; but Miss Celia did not answer. It was 
a good deal ; but the two old ladies had consulted 
together, and had agreed to give up their annual 
summer visit to Elmfield if needful. 

I don’t believe in this subscription business any- 
how,” said Mr. Blandy. ‘‘We might get up a fair, 
or dinner, or something, and raise the money that 
way, or at least a part of it ; and the rest might wait 
till it came handy to pay.” 

“ And so saddle ourselves with a debt,” said Dr. 
Chase. “No, thank you; I have seen enough of 
that.” 

“ Every one does it,” persisted Mr. Blandy. “ That 
fine new church in Oldbury has a twenty-thousand- 
dollar mortgage on it this minute.” 

“Yes, and what is the consequence ? Every time 
they try to raise money for some church or benevo- 
lent object, there comes up the debt. There is so 
much interest to be met, that great debt to be pro- 
vided for, they can’t even raise funds for a new Sun- 
day-school library. No, no ! Bad as the church 
looks, I would rather it should stay so than that we 
should run in debt.” 

“That fifty dollars we raised for missions would 
come handy just now,” said Mr. Blandy with a sneer. 
“I always thought charity began at home.” 

“It is to be hoped the charity of this church is 
not to begin, after an existence of nearly a hundred 
years,” said Mr. Weston. , “For my own part, I do 
nor regard the money given to support my own 
church as given in charity, any more than that I use 
to pay my bills at Mr. Andrews’s store. I get it all 


206 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


back, and a great deal more. Which of us would be 
willing to do without the help we get here, even if it 
cost twice as much to keep the church going } ” 

“Nobody, I guess,” answered Mr. Andrews. “I 
don’t know but you are right, squire, though I must 
say I never looked at it in that way before. Well, 
you may put me down for twenty dollars, to begin 
with.” 

A few more subscriptions were given in, and a 
committee appointed to canvass the town. The 
ladies decided upon a day to begin operations, as a 
good deal of cleaning was absolutely needful before 
the painting could be commenced ; and the meeting 
was about to be adjourned when Mr. Archimball 
rose up to fire his great gun, which he had kept till 
the last moment. He had much to say about his 
long and faithful services, extending over a period of 
twenty-five years. Twenty-five years he had rung 
that bell for service, and tolled it for funerals ; yes, 
for the grandfathers and grandmothers of some of 
the folks present. But it appeared that folks were 
not satisfied. Very well. If he, Joseph Archim- 
ball, did not suit them, let them get somebody that 
did. He washed his hands of the whole business. 
He resigned his place as sexton. There were the 
keys of the church. He shook off the dust from his 
feet. 

So saying, he threw down the keys on the table, 
and departed, rather wondering that no one tried to 
detain him. 

“ But they will be after me,” he said to himself. 
“They won’t find it so easy to do without me. 


ATE IV PROJECTS. 


207 


They will come asking me to take the keys again. 
But I won’t — not unless they offer me at least ten 
dollars a year more than I have had before.” 

As the time went on, however, and nobody came 
after him, Mr. Archimball began to wish he had not. 
been so hasty. As it drew toward the end of the 
week, he decided that he would not say any thing 
about that increase of salary ; and on Saturday morn- 
ing he made up his mind that he would go down 
and get the keys, open the windows, and even air 
out the cellar. The women-folks must be out of 
the way by that time. Lo and behold ! when he 
reached the church, the windows were already open, 
and a young person of the colored persuasion was 
going about with a duster, — actually with a duster, 
and a feather duster at that, — daintily passing this 
unheard-of instrument over the backs of the old 
pews. 

“ Halloo ! ” said Mr. Archimball. “ Who are you ? 
and what are you doing here ” 

‘‘ I am Edward Kettle, at your service,” returned 
the stranger, with his best bow, which was, indeed, a 
very fine one. “ As to what I am doing, I am put- 
ting the church in order for Sunday, seeing that the 
gentlemen has made me sexton.” 

Mr. Archimball felt that his great gun had 
“kicked,” as sportsmen say. He could hardly be- 
lieve his own senses. 

“ Yoii ! ” he gasped, like the caterpillar in “ Little 
Alice. ” “ Who are you f ” 

“ I’ve told you my name already. As to my fam- 
ily, I am old Abner Kettle’s grandson ; and me and 


208 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


my wife has come to live near the old gentleman. 
As I said before, the church has given me the ap- 
pointment to take charge of this building, which the 
ladies has just cleaned up in the most elegant man- 
ner; and I calculate to do it.’* 

So saying, Mr. Kettle hung up his duster, and, 
producing a sickle from his basket of tools, began a 
vigorous attack upon a colony of burdocks and this- 
tles which had flourished at the side of the church 
steps from time immemorial. 

To say that Mr. Archimball was disgusted, is to 
give a faint idea of his sensations. He was stunned. 
To think that he, he whose grandfather and great- 
grandfather were buried in that very burying-ground, 
should be turned out, supplanted by a colored man, 
and one who was half Indian at that ! And for what ? 
Just because people had taken some new notions 
into their heads about dust and air, and so on. It 
was too bad ! He went home almost resolved never 
to enter the church doors again. 

The subscription went on prosperously; and by 
Sunday Mr. Weston was able to announce that the 
money was raised, and every thing ready to begin 
the work. It was with no little satisfaction that the 
ladies who had been engaged in the cleaning looked 
at the clear glass, and noticed the difference in the 
air. , 

Isn’t it delightful to have the church so clean ! 
and won’t it be fine when it is all painted ! ” said 
Faith Fletcher to the other girls as they kood at 
the door for a moment before Sunday school. ‘‘ And, 
oh, isn’t it nice to have Dr. Madison again ! ” 


JVJSIV PROJECTS. 209 

wish we could have him all the time,” said 
Agnes. “ Don’t you, Selina ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I shall like Mr. 
Brace quite as well,” answered Selina indifferently. 
“ I don’t see any thing so very remarkable about Dr. 
Madison’s preaching. He just says the same things 
that one has always heard.” 

“ He tells ' the old, old story,’ ” remarked Faith. 
“What do you think, Agnes ?” 

“I think the old story is better than any new 
one,” replied Agnes. “ What else could he tell us 
about ? I thought you liked him ever so much last 
Sunday, Selina.” 

“I haven’t said I didn’t like him,” said Selina 
rather shortly. “All I say is, that he isn’t any 
thing so very wonderful. Why didn’t Milly come 
this morning, Agnes ? ” 

“ I don’t know that she had any reason, only that 
she did not care about it. She got a parcel of new 
books last night, and I fancy she preferred to lie 
abed and read. Mrs. Richmond staid with Cordelia.” 

“ How is Cordelia ? ” asked Faith. 

“ Her mother will have it that she is better, but 
we think she fails all the time,” answered Agnes. 
“Cordelia has given up all hope of ever getting 
well, herself. She wants to see a minister, and I 
asked Mrs. Richmond if I should not ask Dr. Madi- 
son to come over, as he is staying at Mrs. Van 
Zandt’s ; but she won’t hear of it.” 

“ How cruel ! ” said Faith. 

“ Well, no, she does not mean it for cruelty. 
She says she can’t have Cordelia’s mind filled with 


210 OLDHAM; OF, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

gloomy ideas. She must be kept cheerful. She 
didn’t like it a bit because I read the Bible to her 
last Sunday, and she hasn’t let me be alone with 
her since.” 

“ She is as bad as Phin Mallory with Kit,” said 
Faith. “That poor child would give her eyes, al- 
most, to come to Sunday school ; and he won’t let 
her. I do wish we could do something for her. 
She looked so sad when we were fixing the school- 
house for meeting last Friday. You can’t scold her 
now for not knowing the Lord’s Prayer, Selina : she 
reads her Testament every chance she finds.” 

“ I suppose she does not have many books of any 
sort,” remarked Faith. “But I do believe Kit is a 
real Christian. I never saw any child try harder to 
be good.” 

'“ She knows how to flatter Miss Armstrong, and 
get on the blind side of her,” said Selina. “You 
needn’t look so shocked. I do think so. Miss Arm- 
strong thinks any one is perfection who can talk 
about religion. Amelia says she is just so in the 
city, and that it is the same with all the city mis- 
sionaries. That is the way all sorts of humbugs 
impose upon them.” 

“ Amelia knows all about city missions, no doubt,” 
said Agnes. “How many mission Sunday schools 
do you suppose she ever saw .? I don’t believe Miss 
Armstrong has any blind side, to begin with; and 
I don’t believe poor Kit ever thought of looking for 
it. She is a good, honest little thing, worth a hun- 
dred of Milly Richmond, and not so very much more 
ignorant, either. Just think! Milly did not know 


ATE TV PROJECTS. 


2II 


that our Lord and the apostles were Jews, and she 
thought the ancient Romans worshipped the Virgin 
Mary.” 

“ O Agnes ! ” 

She did, really.” 

“ And you told of it,” said Selina. “ I don't think 
that is very nice, — to go telling of things that were 
said in your own mother’s house, just to get people 
laughed at. I wonder what your dear Miss Arm- 
strong would say to that ” 

Agnes colored, and her eyes flashed. She did not 
speak for a moment, and in that moment she had 
gained a victory. 

“ She would say I was wrong, and so I was,” said 
she quite gently. “You are right, Selina: it is 
not fair to tell tales. Come, we ought to be in our 
places.” 

The painting began next day, and, of course, took 
longer than any one expected. It was discovered 
that some other very essential repairs were needed. 
Indeed, when the committee appointed for the pur- 
pose came to examine the tower, they found it in a 
really dangerous condition. 

“ So you are going to repair the tower, too,” said 
Aunt Betsy. “That will cost more money. It is 
always the way ; when folks begin to tinker, there is 
no end to it. When the tower is done, you will find 
something else to do.” 

“ There would be an end to somebody if we didn’t 
begin to tinker,” replied Mr. Weston, “ and that 
pretty soon. A very little would have brought the 
bell crashing down into the porch. Suppose such a 


212 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


thing had happened when the tower-room was full 
of the little children ? ” 

“ It makes me shudder,” said Mrs. Weston. Who 
noticed it first ? ” 

“ Edward told me, the very first time he rang the 
bell, that he thought there was something wrong ; 
but I had no idea things were so bad till I came to 
look into them.” 

“Archimball never said any thing about it, did 
he } ” 

“ Not he. I don't suppose he has been into the 
belfry for years. The fact is, we have all neglected 
our duty. Selina did not think what a very large 
kettle of fish she was going to stir up, when she 
made that proposition about cleaning the church.” 

*‘Yes, that is always the way when folks go to 
stirring up things,” said Aunt Betsy. “Let well 
alone, I say.” 

“A great bell hung on a rotten beam over people's 
heads can hardly be called well,” said Mr. Weston. 
“We may be thankful it was looked to in time.” 

“ And what are we going to do for a church while 
all this fuss is going on } ” asked Aunt Betsy. 

“We shall meet in the large room at the academy.” 

“ Well, nobody need think / am going there, to sit 
on those hard benches,” said Aunt Betsy. “ I shall 
just stay at home till things get in decent order 
again. — Abby, I should like to know what price you 
gave for this tea,” she added, lifting to her nose the 
cup of black tea Mrs. Weston had just filled. 
“ Seems to me you must have got cheated.” 

“It is the same tea we have been drinking all 


J\r£W PROJECTS. 


213 


winter, Aunt Betsy. I am sorry it does not suit 
you.” 

“ Oh, I can drink it, I suppose,” said Aunt Betsy 
with an injured air. *‘I calculate to get some my- 
self as soon as I can go over to Oldfield. Mr. An- 
drews hasn’t any that’s fit to drink. He gave me a 
quarter of a pound, and I was glad when it was 
gone.” 

“That old lady isn’t burdened with gratitude, is 
she } ” said Miss Armstrong when Aunt Betsy had 
finally taken her tea and departed. 

“ I doubt whether the idea of gratitude has ever 
occurred to her mind,” replied Mrs. Weston. “ She 
thinks she has a right to all she gets, and a great 
deal more.” 

“Mrs. Richmond says she wonders the church 
don’t put her into the widows’ asylum at Oldbury,” 
remarked Selina. “ She was talking to Mrs. Blandy 
about it yesterday, and they both agreed it would be , 
cheaper. Her place would sell for enough to pay 
her entrance fee and more.” 

“ There would be several objections to that,” re- 
plied Mr. Weston. “ In the first place, she would 
never consent to go.” 

“ She w,ould have to go, I suppose, if people left 
off helping her.” 

“ I doubt it ; and, in the second place, there is no 
reason why she should go. Her land brings her in 
something, and the neighbors must do the rest. 
Why should we turn one of our old church-members 
over to the Oldbury folks to take care of, when we 
are able to do for her ourselves.^ There are a great 


214 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

many more poor people in Oldbury than there are 
here.” 

But she is so cross and disagreeable.” 

** Well, she may as well be cross and disagreeable 
here as in Oldbury,” said Mrs. Weston. “ If shd is 
so trying when she only comes in now and then, 
what would she be to those who lived with her all 
the time ^ The poor old soul is as much attached to 
her home and her church as if she were the pleas- 
antest person in the world, and it would be cruel to 
send her to finish her days among strangers.” 

“According to that, there need be no asylums of 
any sort, if people only took care of their own neigh- 
bors,” said Selina. 

“ Perhaps we could not go so far as that, but cer- 
tainly much fewer would be needed. You are quite 
right there,” said Miss Armstrong. “As to poor Mrs. 
Burr, I can assure you, my dear, she is a very mild 
specimen of her class compared to some that I know. 
There is a woman in an aged-women’s home that I 
know of, who regularly tells every one who comes to 
the house, never to get into that place if they can go 
anywhere else. I have known her, when the matron 
was conducting visitors through the house, to come 
out into the hall, and ask in the humblest tone if 
she might not have just a crust of bread, she was so 
faint and hungry, or if she might not have an old 
carpet or something to put on , her bed, she was so 
cold at night. And yet she is really better off than 
ever she was before in her life.” 

“ I dare say.” 

“Oh, well, we must not be too hard on Aunt 


ATEPV PROJECTS. 


215 


Betsy,” said Mrs. Weston. She is old and lonely, 
and we can very well bear with her humors. We are 
none of us any too grateful for what we receive.” 

Selina chose to take this remark to herself, though 
nothing was farther from Mrs. Weston’s thoughts 
than such an application. 

** If you think I am so ungrateful and unthankful, 
mother, I think I had better go and live somewhere 
else,” said she, rising from the table, and bursting 
into tears. “ I suppose I could earn my living ; and, 
at any rate, I should not ” — The rest was lost in 
sobs. 

‘‘ What is the matter now ? ” said Mr. Weston in 
surprise. 

*‘If you want to find fault with me, you might 
speak out, and not keep talking al me,” sobbed 
Selina. ** I wish you had never taken me from the 
asylum.” 

‘‘ Take care you do not make other people wish 
so,” said Mr. Weston. ‘‘Now stop that noise at 
once. Go and wash your face, and then come and 
sit down to the table, and finish your supper. Do 
you hear me ^ and do you mean to mind me } ” he 
added more sternly than before. “Come, we have 
had enough of this. If you will behave like a spoiled 
child, you must be treated like one. Do as I tell 
you.” 

Selina was frightened. Never had Mr. Weston 
spoken to her in such a tone before. He was one 
of the most even-tempered men in the world, and 
generally left the whole interior government of the 
family in his wife’s hands. He had always been very 


2 i 6 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

indulgent to Selina, and, on that very account, his 
severity was more effective now. As he kept his 
eye fixed on her, she felt that there was nothing for 
it but to obey. Not another word was’ addressed to 
her till supper was over, and Miss Armstrong had 
left the room. Then Mr. Weston turned to her. 

Y ou will help your mother do up the work, and 
then you will stay at home,” said he. Don’t let 
me see you running away up to Mrs. Gleason’s, as 
you have done every evening this week. You must 
turn over a new leaf, Selina, or I shall have to do it 
for you. I will not have your mother and the whole 
family made uncomfortable by you. Now, remem- 
ber.” 

Never in all the seven years she had lived at the 
farm had Selina met with such a reproof. She felt 
small enough as she went about clearing the table, 
and worst of all was the growing feeling that she 
had made herself ridiculous. She did up the work 
sulkily; and then, retiring to her own room, she threw 
herself on the bed without a word of prayer, and 
cried herself to sleep. 

“ I don’t see what has come over Selina,” remarked 
Mrs. Weston as she took her knitting and sat down 
with Miss Armstrong in the wide hall, which was 
much used as a summer sitting-room. “ She is cer- 
tainly in a bad state of mind. I don’t think Milly 
Richmond does her any good.” 

“ From the little I have seen, I should not think 
Miss Richmond’s society was calculated to be useful 
to any one,” said Miss Armstrong. “ She did me 
the favor to come to school as a visitor one afternoon 


ATEPV PROJECTS. 


217 


last week, and certainly I never wish to have her 
visit repeated. It seems to me that poor Selina’s 
great stumbling-block is her disposition to jealousy.” 

‘‘Yes, that is the great trouble, and always has 
been,” replied Mrs. Weston, sighing. 

“ It is a hard fault to deal with, because the person 
possessing it is so apt to take it for a virtue, or at 
least a mark of superiority,” said Miss Armstrong. 
“However, it is a comfort that grace can conquer 
that as well as every other infirmity.” 

“ I hoped that Selina was coming under the power 
of religion,” said Mrs. Weston. 

“ And so did I. The first week or two after I 
came, she seemed much interested in the Bible les- 
sons, and talked quite freely on the subject ; but 
latterly I cannot get her to speak a word, and hardly 
to answer a question.” 

“Sometimes I think she is resisting conviction, 
and that makes her more irritable than she would 
be,” remarked Mrs. Weston. “ How does she be- 
have in school in other ways ? ” 

“ I see an unfavorable change there, too,” answered 
Miss Armstrong. “ The first week she was a great 
help to me. I cannot say as much now.” 

“ She is at a trying age,” said Mrs. Weston, using 
the universal mother’s excuse, which suits all ages 
from one to twenty-one. “ Sometimes I think the 
fault must be in my management, and yet I don’t 
know. I have never made any difference between 
her and Lizzy, and Lizzy never gave me an hour’s 
anxiety in her life except from illness. I hear that 
Agnes Gleason means to be confirmed.” 


2I8 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


** Yes, she has quite decided to take the first oppor- j 
tunity. Her mother seems very much pleased.” [ 
“ I was a little surprised when she said as much to | 
me on Sunday,” said Mrs. Weston. “ Mrs. Gleason j 
has never made any profession of religion. We i. 
thought she would do so when my sister and myself li 
united with the church, and I dare say she would if . 
her own mother had been alive. But she was board- jj 
ing with Aunt Betsy at that time, and she held the i' 
child back. I think it was a great mistake.” li 

‘‘ I believe it is a mistake in ninety-nine cases out I 
of a hundred.” il 

“ I quite agree with you. Who is this coming in ? ” |j 
“ It is Ida Van Zandt and her cousin,” said Miss | 
Armstrong, rising. You will like these girls, Mrs. i| 
Weston. They are as thoroughly genuine as any I I 
ever knew.” I 

Mrs. Weston was quite prepared to like her young 
neighbors. She went to call Selina ; but Selina had j 
gone to bed, and pretended to be asleep. The girls 
had two errands besides their desire to see Miss 
Armstrong. . One was, to procure some guinea-hens’ 
eggs. Amity had heard that Mrs. Weston had a 
very superior breed of guinea-hens, and she wanted 
to send some home to her grandfather, who was a 
great fowl-fancier. 

“You had better let me give you a pair of the ! 
fowls when you go home. That will be the best : 
way,” said Mrs. Weston. “Eggs are rather uncer- j 
tain, but I can let you have some to eat if you think I 
your aunt would fancy them. They are very deli- ; 
cate.” i! 


J\r£:w PROJECTS. 


219 


“Thank you very much,” said Amity. “I shall 
be glad of any thing to tempt aunt Barbara’s appe- 
tite, for she is not very well just now. But, Mrs. 
Weston, I did not mean to beg your beautiful fowls.” 

“ Oh, you are quite welcome. We should not keep 
them, and I am just so silly I would rather give the 
poor things away than have them killed, I have made 
such pets of them.” 

“I don’t think it silly at all. I have just the same 
feeling,” said Amity. “ But if you please, Mrs. 
Weston, we will make it an exchange ; I see you keep 
ducks, and I will have O’Connor send you a pair of 
our new Pekin ducks. They are the present rage in 
our parts. — And now for your errand, Ida,” said 
Amity when these matters had been satisfactorily 
settled. 

“Oh,” said Ida, blushing. “Perhaps I ought to 
begin with an apology for ‘assumacy,’ as old Alice 
calls it. It has occurred to me. Miss Armstrong, 
that, as almost all the children seem to come to the 
Friday-evening service, it would be rather a nice 
thing to meet them some time during the week and 
practise upon the hymns. What do you think ? ” 

“I think it an excellent plan,” answered Miss 
Armstrong. “ I have been regretting, ever since I 
came here, that I cannot sing. I suppose you mean 
to teach the class yourself, Ida.^” 

“ Oh, yes : I am to be professor.” 

“ I proposed something of the sort to Selina,” said 
Miss Armstrong, turning to Mrs. Weston; “but she 
seemed to think it would not do.” 

“ I don’t see any objection to it,” said Mrs. West- 


220 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

on; “that is, supposing Miss Van Zandt is willing 
to take the trouble.” 

“ Oh, I shall like it,” answered Ida. “ I do think 
I have some gift that way, too, though I say it that 
shouldn’t. I have taught singing in our mission 
school for two winters ; and really they do very well, 
don’t they. Amity ? ” 

“ Indeed they do ; but I fancy you will find it 
rather different teaching Miss Armstrong’s children.” 

“ I should imagine so,” said Ida, laughing. “ I 
heard a lady on Sunday talking about those little 
Irish children in the infant-class, and saying they 
ought not to be allowed to. come in such a state. 
I wondered what she would say to your infants. 
Amity.” 

“ Oh, my infants are not so bad. Even the Flynns 
come with clean faces now and then. Norah had a 
patch on her dress the last Sunday, and actually 
a clean apron.” 

“Mrs. Weston opens her eyes,” said Ida. 

“ Oh, I have seen mission schools, though I never 
taught in one,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling. “ I should 
think it might be trying work sometimes.” 

“Well, it is ; and yet it has its rewards too.” 

“ Where is Mr. Weston } ” asked Miss Armstrong. 
“ We must have his sanction before we do any thing,” 

“ What a lovely woman ! ” said Ida as Mrs. Weston 
went out to call her husband. “Is she as sweet as 
she looks ? ” 

“ Sweeter, if any thing.” 

“ Her daughter does not look at all like her,” said 
Amity. “ She is a handsome girl, too ; but she has a 






JVEIV PROJECTS. 


221 


discontented, almost envious expression. She has a 
fine voice : I noticed it on Sunday.” 

Yes, I think she would sing uncommonly well if 
she would take more pains. Mr. Weston is as good 
as his wife. I never met two more excellent people.” 

“ Is Selina the only child } ” 

“ No, they have a married daughter in Oldbury, — 
a very lovely woman in all respects. Both she and 
Selina are adopted children ; and they had another, a 
very fine young man, who died a year or two since. 
They have had several children of their own, who all 
died in infancy. Here comes Mr. Weston. You 
must sing for him, Ida : he loves music, and under- 
stands it too.” 

Mr. Weston listened attentively while Ida unfolded 
her plan, which was to meet the school-children twice 
a week, and sing with them the hymns and tunes 
used in Sunday school and at the Bible class, and 
any other music which might be deemed desirable. 

“ It seems a very nice plan,” said Mr. Weston, 
‘‘but it is a good deal for you to do.” 

“ I shall enjoy it,” said Ida. I love children, and 
the practice will keep my hand in. Of course I shall 
not give them much instruction in the theory of 
music, but perhaps they may learn to read notes. I 
think children pick that up pretty easily.” 

“ Well, Miss Van Zandt, I will talk it over with 
the other trustees,” said Mr. Weston. “ I can’t think 
any one will object, but there is no telling. I expect 
we are going to have a fight over the Bible-reading 
at the next school-meeting. Phin Mallory says he 
means to put a stop to it ; and like as not Tom Jews- 


222 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

bury will support him, just to show off what he calls 
his liberal ideas.” 

‘‘If they turn the Bible out, they will turn me 
out,” said Miss Armstrong. “ I will never teach in 
any school where the Bible is shut out.” 

“ Oh, they won't succeed, — we have not many of 
that sort, — but they will make a fuss.” 

Perhaps it will be better not to have any con- 
nection between the singing-school and the day- 
school,” remarked Amity. “Ida might just ask 
for the loan of the schoolhouse for her class to 
meet in.” 

“ And I will have it directly after school, because 
then the children are together, and it is the most 
convenient hour for me,” said Ida. “Yes, that will 
be best.” 

“ People will be asking what your terms are,” said 
Mr. Weston, smiling. 

“ But I haven’t any terms,” said Ida. “ I don’t 
propose to ask any thing, Mr. Weston. It is just be- 
cause I like children, and because it is so nice for 
them to know how to sing.” 

“ Well, I will let you know in a day or two. Mean- 
while, perhaps you will sing something for me.” Ida 
complied at once, and sang song after song, grave and 
gay. She had a noble voice which had received every 
advantage of cultivation, and had not been spoiled 
thereby. 

“ That is grand ! ” said Mr. Weston. “ I’ll tell you 
what, mother, if any one makes an objection, we’ll 
just ask Miss Van Zandt to come in and sing for 
them.” 


JVEIV PROJECTS. 


223 


** One thing more,” said Miss Armstrong ; that 
is, if you are not tired, Ida.” 

“ Not at all. I am never tired of singing.” 

‘‘Then sing ‘ I know that my Redeemer liveth/ ” 

“ I am not sure that I can do it justice,” said Ida : 
“I have not tried it in some time. But I will do 
my best.” 

There was a moment’s silence after that most 
beautiful of all sacred songs was concluded, and then 
Mr. Weston and his wife both drew a long breath. 

“ That is wonderful ! ” said Mrs. Weston. “ How 
I wish Selina could sing that ! ” 

“ I dare say she could learn,” replied Ida. “ She 
has a fine voice. I noticed it in church. It is a pity 
it should not be cultivated.” 

“ I have always meant Selina should have some 
good singing-lessons,” said Mr. Weston. “I have 
thought of sending her to her sister’s in Oldbury. 
They have an excellent professor in the school there, 
or so I have been told.” 

“ Really, Ida, we must go,” said Amity : “ it is 
growing dark. Aunt Barbara will think we are lost.” 

“ I will walk with you, if you will allow me,” said 
Mr. Weston. “ I was going over to the Corners, at 
any rate, and your house is but a few steps out of 
my way.” 

“ What charming girls ! ” said Mrs. Weston. “ Miss 
Bogardus’s money does not seem to have spoiled her.” 

“Not a bit. She is one of the hardest-working, 
most self-denying girls I ever knew. Ida is a good 
child too.” 

“ It shows that wealth and beauty do not of them- 


224 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


selves hurt people. I hope this singing-school may 
be a success, for Selina’s sake,” said Mrs. Weston. 

But Selina had already made up her mind on that 
point. She had been waked by the singing, and had 
been listening with all her ears. Envy and jealousy 
are reptiles that can find food anywhere, — even in 
heaven, if they could get there. 

“ Her voice isn’t one bit better than mine,” Selina 
said to herself : ** it is only that she has had such 
good lessons. I don’t think she sings so much bet- 
ter, either. I don’t see what call she has to be 
setting up a singing-school here. We don’t want any 
of her patronage.” And Selina resolved, that, if she 
could help it, the singing-school should not be a 
success. 


CHAPTER XII. 

HARMONY AND DISCORD. 

The trustees made no objection to the singing- 
school ; and in two or three days Miss Armstrong 
announced that Miss Van Zandt would meet after 
school such of the children as would like to learn to 
sing. 

“Any of us? little ones and all.?” asked Ednah 
Fletcher. 

“Little ones and all; every one who would like 
to learn to sing nicely in church and Sunday school. 
Miss Van Zandt is very kind to give up so much time 
to you, and I hope you will reward her by being very 
good and attentive.” 

“ I am sure I will,” said Kit. “ I think she is 
awful good.” 

“Yes, very kind indeed,” said Selina when school 
was dismissed. “ For my part, I am not so fond of 
being patronized by city people.” 

“ If city people want to do me a kindness, I am 
willing they should,” said Faith. 

“ Well, I don’t know,” answered Selina. “ I don’t 
think we were quite ignorant heathen before Miss 

225 


226 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Armstrong and Miss Van Zandt came here, though 
one would think so to hear them talk.” 

"‘Why, what do they say ? ” asked Lucinda Hurd. 

“ Oh, Miss Van Zandt says she is used to teaching 
in mission schools, and wants to keep her hand in ; 
and Miss Armstrong says she would not teach here 
at all if it were not for teaching the Bible.” 

Faith and Agnes exchanged a glance which an- 
noyed Selina. It seemed as if they were laughing 
at her. 

“Where did you hear all this.?” asked Sarah. 
Selina thought there was some incredulity in the 
tone, and she answered positively, — 

“ I heard her in our house, the very night Miss 
Van Zandt came there to talk about this singing- 
school concern.” 

“ Oh,” said Sarah demurely. “ I thought I heard 
somebody delivering a lecture to Agnes on Sunday 
about repeating what was said in her mother’s house, 
that was all.” 

Selina colored scarlet, and wished she had held 
her tongue. 

“ If you have such a dislike to being patronized 
by city people, I wonder you should care to go so 
much with Milly Richmond,” continued Sarah. “ She 
is patronizing. I could hardly help laughing at the 
tone in which she talked to Miss Armstrong about 
her little country seminary and her ‘little rustics.’ ” 

“ What is ‘ patronizing ’ .? ” asked Kit, who had been 
listening to the conversation with wide-open eyes. 

“ ‘ Patronizing,’ little one .? Why, I hardly know 
how to define it,” said Sarah. “ It really means, to 


HARMONY AND DISCORD. 


227 


defend or support; but I suppose, as Selina uses 
it, it means to do good to any one in a condescend- 
ing way, as if you were a great deal better than 
they.” 

“Then I am sure Miss Van Zandt is not a bit 
patronizing,” said Kit eagerly. “She doesn’t put 
on one bit of airs.” 

. “ Pray, what you know about it ? ” asked Selina. 
“ Where have you seen Miss Van Zandt, I should 
like to know V' 

The tone was rude enough to bring the color to 
Kit’s face ; but she answered quietly, — 

“I have seen her two or three times. She and 
Miss Bogardus have been very kind to me. They 
gave me my Testament and my hymn-book.” 

“ Well, I must say I agree with Selina,” said 
Lucinda Hurd. “ I don’t want any stuck-up city- 
folks coming and doing good to me!' 

“ I don’t believe you are in any danger of being 
done good to,” said Sarah. “For my part, I mean 
to learn all I can. Miss Van Zandt does sing splen- 
didly.” 

“ Ezra says he never heard such a voice in his 
life,” said Faith Fletcher. Now, Ezra Fletcher was 
a college senior, and a great personage in the red- 
schoolhouse district. 

“ Oh, very well ; go and be patronized if you 
like,” said Selina. “ I shall not, that’s all.” 

“ Selina, are you ever coming home ^ ” asked Milly 
Richmond, appearing round the turn of the road just 
by the schoolhouse. “I have been waiting for you 
half an hour at least,” she added, putting her arm 


228 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


through Selina’s, with a condescending hod to the 
rest of Ihe girls as she walked away. 

** There’s distinguished city breeding for you,” said 
Sarah. 

“ What is the use of calling it ci^j/ breeding ? ” 
asked Agnes : “ it is no more city than country. 
One sees underbred people everywhere.” 

“City-folks always are stuck up, anyway,” said 
Lucinda. “ They always look down on country-folks.” 

“ I don’t think so. Dr. Madison did not talk to us 
in Sunday school as though he looked down on us.” 

“ Not half as much as Mr. Martin used to,” ob- 
served one of the girls. “ It used to make me sick 
to hear him begin, ‘ Now, my dear children,’ and 
then go on to talk baby-talk for half an hour. I just 
hated to go. Dr. Madison talks sense, and so did 
Mr. Brace when he was here. And Mr. Martin was 
no such great man : his father used to keep a little 
candy-shop over in Oldfield when my mother went 
to school there.” 

‘ilt is nothing against Mr. Martin if he did,” said 
Sarah. “ Keeping a candy-shop is an honest trade.” 

“It is a sweet trade anyhow,” said Faith. “I 
should like to keep a candy-shop myself, and then I 
could have all the candy I wanted.” 

“ But, ‘suppose it wasn’t an honest trade, would 
that be any thing against Mr. Martin } ” asked Kit. 
“ He wouldn’t be to blame for what his father did, 
would he ” 

“ Well, no, I suppose not,” answered Faith rather 
doubtfully ; “ but people think a great deal of family 
about here.” 


HARMONY AND DISCORD. 


229 


** Of course he would not/^ said Sarah decidedly. 

If a man is good, he is good, and if he is bad, he 
is bad, whatever his father was. Mr. Martin was a 
good man, but he was no hand to manage a Sunday 
school.” 

If I could go to Sunday school, I don’t think I 
should care very much who managed it,” said Kit 
sadly. 

Can’t you } ” asked Eddy. 

“ No : uncle Phin won’t let me. I couldn’t help 
crying last Sunday when I sat up on the hill, and 
watched the children coming out with their books.” 

Think of that, Eddy,” said Faith. ‘‘Somebody I 
know cried last Sunday for a very different reason 
from that.” 

Eddy blushed at the recollection, and made up her 
mind that she would never quarrel with her Sunday- 
school lesson again. 

“You will come to the singing-school, won’t you. 
Kit ? ” said Sarah. 

“Yes, if they will let me. I think it is lovely in 
Miss Van Zandt to teach us, don’t you } ” 

“ I think it is very nice of her. Good-night, little 
one.” As she kissed Kit she added, “ Don’t be 
down-hearted. Kit ; I hope better times will come for 
you by and by.” 

“ Won’t you please ask God to let me go, Sarah ? ” 
whispered Kit as she returned Sarah’s kiss. 

“ You love Him, don’t you ? ” said Sarah. 

“Yes; and I love you too,” answered Kit, “you 
are so kind to me.” 

“ It would be a hard-hearted creature that could be 


230 OLDHAM; OD, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

any thing but kind to such a kitten as you. Come 
home with me, and I 'will give you some flowers.” 

** Oh, thank you ! ” answered Kit gratefully. Aunt 
Martha loves flowers better than any thing.” 

“ What were you all talking about 1 ” asked Milly 
of Selina as they walked down the road together. 
“You seemed wonderfully interested.” 

“ About Miss Van Zandt’s singing-school. She is 
going to set up a singing-school for the enlighten- 
ment of us ignorant savages here in the country.” 

“A singing-school ! What do you mean ? ” 

Selina told the story, adding, “But I am not go- 
ing, I can tell her. I don’t want any of her patron- 
age.” 

“ I think you will be very silly if you don’t,” was 
Milly ’s unexpected rejoinder. 

“ I don’t know why I should take lessons of her,” 
said Selina. “ I don’t know why I can’t sing as well 
as Miss Van Zandt.” 

“ Because you have not her voice nor her training,” 
returned Milly. “ Why, Selina, the idea of comparing 
your singing with Ida Van Zandt’s ! She is Signor 
A.’s crack pupil ; and I know Professor G., who trains 
the Handel Chorus Society, considers hers the best 
( female voice he has. Not but you do sing very well, 
considering; but the idea of comparing yourself to 
Ida Van Zandt ! ” 

Selina had often admired and defended Milly’s 
bluntness, which she called frankness and sincerity ; 
but she did not find this same frankness so pleasant 
when it was applied to herself. She had a great 
opinion of her own powers ; and to have that opinion 


HARMONY AND DISCORD. 23 1 

SO coolly set aside was almost more than she could 
bear, even from Milly. 

“You were talking the other day of your voice 
making you independent,” continued Milly. “If I 
thought of any such thing as that, I would not 
lose such a chance as this of singing with Miss 
Van Zandt. I have no more voice than a crow, 
and no talent for music anyway; but if I had, I 
would go down on my knees to her to let me 
come.” 

“ I am not in the habit of going down on my knees 
to people,” said Selina loftily ; “ I am not so fond of 
being patronized.” 

“ I call that nonsense,” replied Milly, who pos- 
sessed a certain common-sense which might have 
made her a valuable woman under good training. 
“In the first place, nobody wants you to go down on 
your knees, or to be patronized either. I dare say 
Miss Van Zandt never thought of such a thing. All 
Mrs. Van Zandt’s set are engaged in missions or 
some such work. Ida teaches in the St. Timothy’s 
School, I know, when she is in town, and in another 
in the country ; and so does Miss Bogardus.” 

“That is just what I say,” persisted Selina. “I 
don’t want to be made a mission of.” 

“Anybody might make a mission of me who 
would teach me to sing like that,” said Milly. “And, 
as to patronage, you ought to see how ladies in so- 
ciety will contrive and plan and scheme to get invi- 
tations from those who are a little more fashionable 
than themselves. I believe ma would not only go 
on her knees, but walk on them across Fifth Avenue, 


232 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

to get a card for Mrs. Anderson’s Fridays or one 
of Mrs. Van Zandt’s quiet lunch-parties.” 

‘‘ I call that downright mean,” said Selina. 

‘‘ Oh, well, every one does it. I wouldn’t go as far 
as some do, myself; but I would like to know the 
Van Zandts.” 

“ How is Cordelia to-day ? ” asked Selina, willing 
to turn the conversation. 

She is about the same ; I don’t think she is 
quite as well. Mother left her with Agnes on Sun- 
day, and. Agnes must go to reading the Bible and 
talking pious to her ; and ever since, she thinks she 
is going to die, and is always wanting to have Dr. 
Madison come to see her. Mother won’t hear of it, 
though ; and she was angry enough with Agnes for 
putting it into her head.” 

“ But if she should die, Milly, your mother would 
be sorry she did not let her have her own way.” 

She isn’t going to die,” said Milly angrily. “ I 
believe she would be a great deal better if she would 
exert herself a little. Not but what I would let her 
have her own way in this, and so I told ma,” she 
added in a gentler tone. “ Dr. Madison is a nice old 
gentleman, and I don’t believe he would hurt her. 
But, as to this singing-school business, Selina, you 
will be very foolish if you don’t go.” 

“I can judge for myself, I suppose,” said Selina. 

“All right; judge for yourself all you like. It is 
the last time I shall ever offer you any advice, you 
may be sure of that,” returned Milly. “I had no 
idea you were such a grand personage, or I would 
not have ventured on such a liberty. Good-after- 


HARMONY AND DISCORD. 


233 


noon, Miss Weston, or whatever your name is. I 
won’t trouble you any further.” And Milly turned 
and walked away. 

Selina was confounded for the moment. Like 
other passionate people, she was always surprised 
and aggrieved when any one else showed any temper. 
To do Milly justice, such outbreaks were rare with 
her. She had not reached home before she told her- 
self that she had been silly to mind Selina’s tantrums, 
and resolved that she would make up on the first 
opportunity. She forgot that she had dealt Selina 
a cruel and cowardly blow in the allusion to her 
name, knowing, as she did, how sensitive Selina was 
on that point. Selina stood still a moment, and then, 
turning round, walked rapidly toward home. 

“I will never speak to her again, — never,” she said 
to herself. “ And I will not go to the singing-school 
either, if I can help it. I suppose, though, I shall 
have to, or make a fuss at home. They are all be- 
witched with this Ida Van Zandt, and Milly is as bad 
as the rest. I wish she had never come here.” 

The singing-school began prosperously with a full 
attendance. All the children came; and a good 
many grown people would have liked to do so, but 
Ida good-naturedly but firmly declined having any 
pupils outside of the school. 

‘‘It is only for the little ones,” she explained. 
“And I find they do their best when I have them by 
themselves. Besides, I am not setting up for a 
teacher : I am only practising a little with the chil- 
dren.” 

Selina made up her mind to attend the class, partly 


234 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

because she could not contrive any valid excuse for 
not doing so, and partlybecause on consideration she 
was obliged, however unwillingly, to own that Milly’s 
advice was good. It would be foolish to throw away 
such a chance for improvement ; and moreover, if she 
did, Mr. Weston might make it a reason for refusing 
to let her have singing-lessons in Oldbury. As may 
be guessed, she was not in a very good frame of mind 
for profiting by the lessons, since her chief end and 
aim was, to show that she could sing as well as her 
teacher. 

To Kit the singing-lessons were a source of un- 
mixed joy. She had a real genius for music, and a 
wonderfully quick ear, which caught in a moment all 
the beauties of Ida’s style, and reproduced them in a 
manner quite marvellous to the other girls. 

‘‘Kit will beat us all,” cried Faith in honest admi- 
ration. “ What a beautiful voice she has ! ” 

“Yes, she is going to make a fine singer,” said 
Ida. “But we must not let her practise too much 
for a year or two, or she will hurt her voice. She 
sings with a great deal of expression. Now, you 
must all be very attentive, because I am going to 
give you a lesson on reading the notes.” 

Symantha made no objection to Kit’s singing-les- 
sons, and nothing had been said to Phin about them. 
He was away in Oldbury a good deal of the time, 
and often came home in a very bad humor. Kit 
kept out of his way at these times as much as pos- 
sible. She noticed that Symantha’s face began to 
assume the old anxious expression, which it had 
almost laid aside for a few months past; and she 


HARMONY AND DISCORD. 


235 


shrewdly guessed, that, as she said, '' uncle Phin was 
going wrong again.” One day she came home with 
a very grave, not to say scared, expression, and fol- 
lowed Symantha into the pantry. 

“ Symantha, do you remember that man who used 
to keep the saloon in our street in Goldsburg, — the 
one they said shot the peddler } ” 

‘*Yes,” answered Symantha, startled. ‘‘What of 
him .? ” 

“ I saw him this afternoon,” said Kit. 

“ Impossible, child ! He is in State-prison, and 
long may he stay there ! ” 

“He is not in State-prison now,” persisted Kit. 
“I tell you I saw him this afternoon. I met him 
down by the bars, and he walked part of the way 
home with me. I was scared, I can tell you.” 

“ What did he say to you ? ” 

“ He asked the nearest way to Oldfield, and I told 
him : and then he asked who lived in Mr. Weston’s 
house, and in Mrs. Van Zandt’s ; and I told him. 
Then he said he supposed Mrs. Van Zandt was very 
rich, and I said I didn’t know any thing about it. 
He asked if I had ever been in the house, and I said, 
‘No.’ Then he offered me a quarter, and I told him 
I didn’t take money from strangers.” 

“Quite right,” said Symantha. “But, Kit, I think 
you must be mistaken. Are you sure ” 

“ Quite sure, and I will tell you how. He has 
bleached his hair, and got white whiskers ; but don’t 
you remember one of his eyes was of two colors ? 
Pie could not change that, and I knew him by it 
directly.” 


236 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Symantha’s face grew dark. ‘‘I thought he was 
out of the way, at least,” said she. “ I wonder what 
brings him here.” 

“ He said he was going to Oldfield, and wanted to 
know the shortest road. I was glad when he walked 
on, for I am always afraid of him.” 

*‘He is a wicked wretch,” said Symantha. “I 
have heard that he was born somewhere about here. 
Well, don’t say a word, Kit. You were quite right 
not to answer his questions.” 

hope he won’t get hold of uncle Phin,” said 
Kit. I thought he would get out of his old ways 
when he came to this nice place, and had the farm 
and all.” 

‘‘ And so did I ; but, when people are bound to go 
to destruction, they will go,” said Symantha, with a 
sigh which was almost a groan. 

“ It is too bad of uncle Phin, because he is so nice 
when he is good,” said Kit. She paused, and then 
added timidly, “Symantha, why don’t you ask our 
Father in heaven to make uncle Phin good ? Don’t 
you believe He could ? ” 

“ I don’t know, child ; I suppose so. Do you be- 
lieve it } ” 

“Yes, I do. There was the thief on the cross : I 
read about him this morning. And I know other 
wicked people have been made good.” 

“ Well, child, pray for him, then, and for me too, 
if you like. I am sure I am glad if you take comfort 
in that or any thing else. How do you get on with 
your singing-school ? ” 

“ Oh, nicely ! ” replied Kit with animation. “ We 


HARMONY AND DISCORD. 


237 


have learned * Jesus, lover of my soul,’ and ‘There 
is a green hill far away,’ and ‘Onward, Christian 
soldiers.’ That is splendid. They are going to sing 
it in meeting to-morrow night,” said Kit with a sud- 
den change of tone. “ Don’t I wish I could go ! ” 

“ Don’t you wish you could go where ? ” asked 
Phin. He had left his boots at the door, and come 
quietly in in his stocking-feet, so that no one had 
heard him. 

“To meeting,” said Kit, rather alarmed, but stand- 
ing her ground, and half hoping her uncle might 
relent. 

“ Well, you won’t do any such thing.” 

“ I don’t see what harm it would do,” said Kit. 
“If it is all nonsense, as you say, it would do no 
more hurt than going to the circus or the theatre ; 
and you used to let me go there. And if it is true ” — 

“ Hush, Kit,” said Symantha. 

“True or false, you won’t go. And you are not 
going near that schoolhouse for any thing again. 
Do you hear ? ” 

“Not to school faltered Kit. 

“ No !” thundered Phin. “Not to school nor for 
any thing else. If you say another word I will take 
you over to Oldbury, and set you to drawing beer at 
Stillwell’s. I was a fool not to do it before.” 

Kit’s own temper flamed up. “I’ll never draw 
beer at Stillwell’s nor anywhere else,” said she. “I 
hate the beer, — it is that makes you so ugly, uncle 
Phin, — and I’ll never touch it.” 

“ You won’t, eh ? You will go down cellar and 
get me a glass this minute.” 


238 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

I won’t.” 

‘‘ Father ! ” said Symantha warningly, but Phin was 
not to be controlled. He had come home from Old- 
bury vexed at losing money in gambling, irritated as 
a weak man always is at the slavery to which he was 
reduced by his own weakness, and ready to visit that 
irritation on the first helpless object that came in his 
way. He took Kit in his arms despite her struggles ; 
and, carrying her down stairs, he set her down, and 
ordered her to draw the beer. But Kit was by this 
time quite beside herself with rage ; and the old habit 
asserted itself, as old habits will with the best of us 
at times. 

The beer-keg stood on a table at quite a height 
from the floor. With a volley of hard words. Kit 
seized it, and, by a sudden exertion of strength, flung 
it violently to the ground. The head, coming in 
contact with a large stone, was smashed in, and the 
beer poured out on the cellar-*bottom. 

“ There’s your beer drawn for you,” said she. 

Now drink it.” 

Phin’s rage was something fearful. He whipped 
Kit till her screams alarmed him. “ There, now go 
to bed ; and don’t let me see you again to-night,” 
said he, releasing her at last. ‘‘Come, we’ll know 
who is to be master.” 

Kit crept away to bed, trembling so she could 
hardly stand. Sorely beaten as she was, the pain 
was the least of her troubles. That which she had 
most feared had fallen upon her. To stay away 
from school, — that was the worst. To have no Miss 
Armstrong to go to in her troubles ; to have no one 


HARMONY AND DISCORD, 


239 


to answer her questions, and explain to her what she 
did not understand, — oh, it was too dreadful to think 
of ! Symantha watched her chance, and brought the 
child some supper ; but she could not eat. Even her 
prayers seemed to bring her no comfort. She had 
been so wicked ! She had been so angry, and used 
such bad words ! What if she should never be for- 
given } She slept only in snatches till the cocks 
began to crow, and the light to shine into her un- 
curtained windows. Then she rose, and sought her 
Testament in the place where she kept it hidden. 
As she read, her face became calmer, and she ceased 
her sobs. Yes, she had been very naughty ; but He 
would forgive her as He had forgiven Peter, who 
cursed and swore. Hope was not all gone, as she 
had thought the night before. Her Guardian was still 
in heaven. He saw and knew it all. He would for- 
give her, and take her part. Kit kneeled and poured 
out her heart in prayer ; and then, lying down, she 
fell at last into a deep, quiet slumber. 


CHAPTER XIII. 
kit’s victory. 

When Kit came down stairs, she found breakfast 
ready, and her uncle just come in. 

Halloo ! here’s the saint,” said he roughly. 
“ Come, let us hear some more of those pretty words 
you said last night, — those nice lessons Miss Arm- 
strong teaches you down there.” 

‘‘ Uncle Phin,” said Kit, growing pale, but speak- 
ing firmly, I never learned those words from Miss 
Armstrong, and you know it. I am sorry I said them ; 
it was very wicked. And I am sorry I struck you.” 

“Humph!” said Phin, considerably taken aback. 
“And what about the beer ? Are you sorry for that 
too .? ” 

“No,” answered Kit. “I should like to do as 
much for all the beer-kegs in the world. You are 
never ugly to me only when you have been drinking 
beer.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Phin. “There, hold your tongue, 
and eat your breakfast ; but mind, you are not going 
to school.” 

Kit dared not say any more. Phin did not go to 

240 


KIT'S VICTORY. 


241 


Oldbury, but staid about the house doing odd jobs 
of repairing, and waiting upon his wife, who had 
been very unwell for several weeks. His fondness 
and tenderness for her was one of his best traits. He 
never spoke harshly to her in his worst moments, 
and would take any amount of pains to give her a 
little comfort. Symantha brought out her basket of 
mending, and asked Kit co help her with the stock- 
ings ; saying, with a meaning look, — 

“You can take your work up in your own room, if 
you like. I am going to clean the floor.” 

Kit understood, as well as if the words had been 
spoken, that Symantha meant to give her a chance to 
read. She fastened her door, and, having despatched 
her task of mending neatly and quickly (for, thanks 
to Symantha's training, she was an expert needle- 
woman), she drew her precious “Pilgrim’s Progress” 
from its hiding-place, and read for a long time. 
Then she got out her Testament, and read the two 
last chapters of St. Luke’s Gospel. She was going 
through the book in course, wondering and delighted 
more and more at all she found there. Her lively 
imagination and quick sense of the beautiful gave 
reality to all the stories ; and she pondered over them 
as she walked to and from school, or drove up the 
cows from their pasture, or helped Symantha with 
the sewing. This morning she was deeply impressed 
with the story of the Resurrection. She seemed to 
see it all, — the women coming to the sepulchre 
(something like the burial-vaults she had seen in the 
cemetery at St. Louis, she thought) in the early morn- 
ing, while it was yet dark ; the visit of the apostles ; 


242 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


Mary mourning by herself, not recognizing her risen 
Lord in the perplexing dusk of the early twilight, 
till he called her by name. 

Her meditations were interrupted by a call to 
dinner. 

Where is uncle Phin ? ” she asked. 

“ He is sitting with ma. She is very bad to-day.” 

** I have not heard her.” 

‘* No, she has not spoken at all ; and I cannot per- 
suade her to eat a mouthful. — Come, father ; come 
to dinner.” 

The meal passed almost in silence. 

*^Let me wash up the dishes,” said Kit after it 
was finished. ‘‘ You look so tired ! ” 

“I did not suppose such a fine lady as you are 
could wash dishes,” said Phin. “I dare say Miss 
Armstrong never washed a dish in her life.” 

Kit made no answer. She was determined not to 
be provoked again if she could help it. She did up 
the work neatly ; and then, taking her hat and her 
book, she went up to her old resting-place on the hill, 
from whence she could see the schoolhouse. It 
would be something even to look at the roof which 
held Miss Armstrong, and where had been passed 
the happiest hours of her life. She knew just what 
was going on, and could almost see the larger girls 
engaged in preparing their grammar lesson, and the 
little ones taking it in turn to read their small tasks 
by Miss Armstrong’s side. It would be about Jenny 
Hurd’s turn now, she thought. She would lean 
against Miss Armstrong. Perhaps Miss Armstrong’s 
arm would be around her. What would she not give 


KIT^S VICTORY, 


243 


to be in her place ! Jenny did not like to come to 
school, and would rather play all day; and yet Jenny 
could have the privilege from which she was shut 
out. It was very strange, Kit thought. 

“Anyhow, uncle Phin can’t ever take away from 
me what I have learned. He never can make things 
as they were before I knew Miss Armstrong ; noth- 
ing in the world can do that. And they are things 
which will last for ever and ever,” said Kit, half 
aloud, realizing in her sorrow the truth which has 
come to so many other people in times of change 
and bereavement, — that the things which are seen 
are temporal ; while it is only the things which are 
not to be seen by mortal eyes, or handled by mor- 
tal hands, that are real and eternal. Then another 
thought occurred to Kit, which made her take out 
her little Testament, already showing signs of the 
wear it suffered by being carried in her pocket. She 
turned to the second chapter of St. Matthew’s Gos- 
pel, and was soon so deeply engaged in study that 
she started as if she had been shot when Ida spoke 
to her. 

“ Why, Kitty ! how does it happen that you are not 
in school ? ” 

“ Uncle Phin won’t let me go,” answered Kit, with 
a quivering lip. “ He says I shall not go any more.” 

“ But that is a great pity, when you were getting 
on so nicely,” said Amity. “ Why did he say that ? ” 

“ He got angry at me,” said Kit. “ I was naughty, 
I know ; but I don’t think that was the reason. It 
was just because he was put out about something 
else. I was in hopes he had forgotten all about it 


244 OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

this morning, — he does that way very often, — but 
he says I shall never go there again.” 

‘‘We will hope that he will change his mind, as 
you say he has done so before. What are you doing 
now } ” 

“ Learning verses out of the Testament,” answered 
Kit. ‘‘ I was thinking that uncle Phin nor any one 
else could take away the things I had learned. And 
then I thought, ‘ What if I should lose my Testament 
again, or go where I couldn’t have any teaching ? ’ 
So I made up my mind to learn as many verses as I 
could ; because, don’t you see, nobody can take away 
the things I have in my mind.” 

Ida and Amity exchanged glances. 

“ Other people besides you have done that, little 
Kitty,” said Amity. “ Last summer I went to visit a 
mountainous country in Europe, where live a brave 
and good people who for many hundred years were 
dreadfully persecuted on account of their religion. 
The popes, and the governors of that country, were 
determined to make these people give up reading the 
Bible, and worshipping God as they thought right. 
They wanted them to become Roman Catholics ; 
so they made war on them, and burnt their houses, 
and shut many of them up in prisons and convents, 
and put others to cruel deaths.” 

“ That was a queer way to make them like the 
Roman-Catholic religion,” said Kit. 

‘‘ It was a way which did not succeed very well,” 
said Amity. ‘‘The more these people were perse- 
cuted, the more closely they clung to their own 
religion, and the more they loved the Bible. But, 


KIT^S VICTORY, 


245 


because they were liable at any time to lose their 
books, they used to do as you are doing. All the 
children were taught to commit to memory the whole 
of the Gospels. As they grew up they learned more 
and more, till many grown men and women could 
say the New Testament from beginning to end. 
They had very few books ; and so the little children 
used to walk miles upon miles to their schools, over 
rocks and mountains, and ice and snow, through 
places which it made me giddy to look at, in order 
that they might learn the Bible.’* 

And are they persecuted now } ” asked Kit. 

“No: they have their liberty, and can read the 
gospel as much as they like. Now they are sending 
out missionaries to teach other people to read and 
love the Bible.” 

“ That is nice,” said Kit. “ Miss Armstrong told 
us about the missionaries. I thought then I should 
like to be one ; but I shall never know enough to be 
any thing if I can’t go to school.” 

“ Oh, you must not despair,” said Ida. “ I hope 
things will take a turn for the better some time. See 
here, I want you to look at this picture, and tell me 
if you ever saw any one like it.” 

Kit took the photograph Ida offered her, and re- 
garded it long and earnestly. 

“ It looks very much like aunt Martha, only it is 
younger,” said she. “ I think she might have looked 
like that when she was a girl.” 

The girls exchanged glances again. “ I suppose 
nobody sees your aunt,” said Amity. 

“ Nobody ever comes to our house,” replied Kit. 


246 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“ Uncle Phin doesn’t like to have them, because aunt 
Martha is afraid of strangers. At least, he says that 
is the reason ; but I don’t really think so,” she added, 
after a moment’s reflection. 

“Why not ? ” 

“ Because she was not afraid on the cars, when we 
came here,” said Kit : “ she liked it. She used to 
look out of the window. And sometimes she would 
say quite sensible things. She did not have a single 
bad time all the way.” 

“ How has she been since she lived here ? ” asked 
Amity. 

“ She has not been as well. She has grown thin, 
and coughs at night. Symantha thinks she has got 
the consumption.” 

“ And about her mind } ” 

“Well, sometimes she is better, and then she is 
worse; but, on the whole, she is worse. She cries 
a great deal, and some days she will not eat at all. 
But I must be going,” said Kit, looking at the sun. 

“ One thing more,” said Amity. “ Excuse me for 
asking so many questions, Kit ; I have a reason for 
them. Are your uncle and Symantha kind to her ^ ” 

“ I am afraid that is hardly a fair question. Amity,” 
said Ida. 

“ Oh, yes, they are very kind to her,” replied Kit. 
“ Symantha is good to everybody, and uncle Phin 
would do any thing in the world for aunt Martha. 
I never heard him speak a hard word to her, even 
when she was the most troublesome. And even 
Melissa never dared to be cross to her when he was in 
the house. I don’t think uncle Phin would be cross 


KIT^S VICTORY. 


247 


to any one if he would let the beer alone. When we 
first came here, before he began to go to Oldbury, 
he was just as good as he could be. But I must go. 
It must, be nearly five o’clock.” 

“Yes; we won’t keep you any longer,” said Ida. 
“ That is an excellent idea of yours, about learning 
the Gospels by heart. Good-night, little one.” 

“I believe that aunt of hers is really Kathleen 
Joyce,” said Amity as she and Ida turned homeward. 

“ So do I. And I believe, moreover, that she is 
the child’s mother. I do wish aunt Barbara could 
see her; but I don’t know what excuse she could 
make for forcing herself in, especially as we have no 
proof that the poor thing is ill-treated.” 

“ Miss Celia says she screams dreadfully at times, 
and that the neighbors have talked of interfering,” 
remarked Amity. “ If they should, something might 
be done. At any rate, it will be a comfort to aunt 
Barbara to know that the poor thing is kindly 
treated.” 

As Kit came down the hill behind her uncle’s 
house, she stopped and listened as the sound of wild 
and piercing screams, poured forth in quick succes- 
sion, fell on her ear. 

“Aunt Martha is bad again,” she thought; and, 
quickening her steps, she reached the house, and 
entered her aunt’s bedroom. The poor woman was 
sitting up in bed, uttering scream upon scream, and 
making frantic efforts to escape from her husband’s 
arms, and throw herself on the floor ; while he and 
Symantha strove in vain to soothe her. 

“\Yhat shall do.^” said Phin, glancing at his 


248 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


daughter with a look almost of despair. “ She will 
hurt herself, and rouse the neighbors besides.’' 

** Let me try,” said Kit, unable to keep quiet any 
longer. An idea had darted into her head which 
she longed to put in practice. 

“Well, do,” said Symantha. “You can’t do any 
harm. She is as bad as she can be, now.” 

Kit seated herself on the side of the bed, and, 
without a word of what she was about to do, she 
began singing, — 

“Jesus, lover of my soul,” 

to the tender, pleading music of the Spanish Hymn. 

The poor woman’s screams and struggles ceased 
at once. She leaned back on her husband’s breast, 
and listened lilce one entranced till Kit sang the 
hymn all through. 

“ I used to sing that,” said she when Kit was silent. 
“ I used to sing a great many hymns before they took 
away my Lord. But they have taken Him away, 
they have taken Him away ; and I know not where 
they have laid Him.” 

“ Oh, no, aunt Martha ! ” said Kit cheerfully. 
“ They haven’t taken Him away : nobody could do 
that. You know Mary thought they had, but she 
was mistaken. He had risen from the dead, and was 
close by her all the time, only it was so dark she 
couldn’t see to tell who it was. But when He spoke 
to her, then she knew Him.” 

“But He won’t speak to me,” said the invalid. 
“ He never speaks to me now. Do you think He 
ever will ? ” 



Kit seated herself ou the side of the bed, and without a word of what she was about to do, she began singing.’* — p. 248, 








KIT^S VICTORY. 


249 


“Yes, I know He will. I am going to read you 
what He says.” And forgetting every thing in her 
desire to comfort the sufferer, forgetting even her 
fears for her chiefest treasure. Kit took her precious 
Testament from her pocket; and, opening it at ran- 
dom, she began to read from the third chapter of St. 
John. Mrs. Mallory listened with evident pleasure. 
Presently, however, her eyelids began to droop, her 
fingers ceased to pick at the bed-clothes, her head 
sank back. She had fallen into a quiet slumber. 
Phin gently laid her head on the pillow, while Sy- 
mantha darkened the window. Presently he went 
to the door, and beckoned out Kit, who was still 
reading in subdued tones. Kit obeyed, though she 
was terribly frightened when she thought of what 
she had done. 

“But I don’t care,” she said “I know it was 
right.” 

To her amazement, Phin lifted her in his arms, and 
kissed her. 

“You are a good girl, Kit. You shall do as you 
like. You may go to school, and to meeting too, if 
you want to.” 

“ O uncle Phin ! do you mean it ” 

“ Yes, I mean it. There, child, don’t strangle 
me,” as Kit threw her arms round his neck in a 
vehement hug. 

“ And may I really go to meeting and to Sunday 
school ? ” asked Kit. 

“ I didn’t say any thing about Sunday school. 
However, I don’t care,” said Phin. “Yes, you may 
go, though I don’t see what pleasure you find in it.” 


250 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


Go yourself, and you will find out,” said Kit. 

‘‘ See here ! you are one of the folks, that, when 
you give them an inch, they take an ell. Go to meet- 
ing, if you like ; but don’t take to preaching, yourself. 
But see here. Kit ; how did you dare get out that 
Testament } Wasn’t you afraid I would burn it up, 
as I did the other one } ” 

“ I didn’t think any thing about myself, anyway,” 
answered Kit : I only thought of comforting aunt 
Martha. And, you see, it did comfort her. You 
won’t burn it up, will you, uncle Phin } ” 

“No, child. Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt your 
precious book. Where did you get it .^ ” 

“ Miss Van Zandt gave it to me. I found a book 
she lost up on the hill, and took it to her ; and then 
she gave me this one.” 

“All right,” said Phin, apparently not caring to 
pursue the subject. “There, run out to the barn, 
and find my pipe; I have left it out there some- 
where.” 

“Just to think that I can go to meeting !” said Kit 
to Symantha that night as she was helping her wash 
up the dishes. “ It seems too good to be true. 
Ain’t you glad, Symantha ? ” 

“Yes, child, I am glad to have you take all the 
comfort you can,” answered Symantha wearily. 
“ There is none too much going in the world, any- 
way ; and you have had less than your share.” 

“ I have had more than you have,” said Kit. “ I 
wish I could do something for you.” 

“You do a great deal for me. I don’t know how 
I should live without you ; and yet, if I could get you 


KIT^S VICTORY. 25 I 

such a home as Selina Weston has, I would let you 
go-" 

“Selina is not contented, though,” said Kit; “at 
least, I think not. And only fancy, Symantha, she 
does not like Miss Armstrong and Miss Van Zandt. 
She says they are patronizing, and feel above her.” 

“ And you don’t think they feel above you, I sup- 
pose } ” 

“I never thought any thing about it,” answered 
Kit. “Of course they are above me. Just think 
how many things they know, and I am only an igno- 
rant little girl. But I don’t think that is all the 
trouble with Selina. She liked Miss Armstrong ever 
so much at first. It seemed as if she did not want 
to have her speak to any one else.” 

“Perhaps t/iat is the trouble. If Selina has a jeal- 
ous disposition, she will never be happy anywhere. 
There, go to bed, child. You have had a hard day.” 

“It has turned out good, so I don’t care,” said 
Kit. “I am so glad I thought of singing to aunt 
Martha ! ” 

“Yes, it was a happy thought. What put it into 
your head ? ” 

“I don’t know, unless God did,” answered Kit 
with an odd kind of matter-of-fact reverence. • “ But 
I am so glad I can gb to school ! I shall feel like 
dancing all the way.” 

But Kit did not go to school next morning, after 
all. Mrs. Mallory slept late, and the moment she 
waked she asked for the child. 

“Was somebody singing to me.^ or did I dream 
it ? ” she asked of Symantha. 


252 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

'*You did not dream it,” answered Symantha 
gently. “ Kit was singing for you.” 

“ And can she sing again ? ” asked the invalid 
imploringly. “Will she come and sing for me again 
Won’t your father let her ? ” 

“Oh, yes! she shall sing for you again,” said Phin, 
answering for himself. “Try what you can do,” he 
said to Kit. “ Perhaps you can coax her to eat some- 
thing. She did not touch a bit yesterday.” 

Kit glanced at the clock in some dismay. It was 
almost school-time. He would want me to stay with 
aunt Martha, I know,” she thought, “ and I believe 
Miss Armstrong would too.” Without a moment’s 
hesitation she sat down by her aunt, and began to 
sing again. 

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Mallory; “you 
have done me a great deal of good. But I feel very 
weak and faint.” 

“That is because you haven’t eaten any thing,” 
said Kit. “Let me give you your breakfast, and 
then I will read to you as I did yesterday. I will 
wash your face and hands, and then you will feel 
more like eating.” 

Mrs. Mallory submitted to all Kit’s toilet offices 
without resistance, and even with some show of 
pleasure. As Kit tied on her cap, she held her 
hand for a moment. 

“Who are you, little girl.^” she said, gazing wist- 
fully at her. “I seem to remember you.” 

“ Why, yes, aunt Martha : I am Kit. Don’t you 
know Kit V 

“ I don’t think that is what I used to call you,” 


KIT^S VICTORY. 


253 


said the poor woman, but my mind is a good deal 
confused. I don’t think I understand any thing very 
well.” 

“ That is because you are sick and weak,” answered 
Kit with ready tact. “ When you are better you will 
know all about it. See, here comes Symantha with 
the nice breakfast.” 

Mrs. Mallory ate with some appearance of appe- 
tite. “Now sing to me if you are not tired,” said 
she. 

“ Oh, I am not tired,” answered Kit. “ I love to 
sing.” She sang two or three hymns, and then read 
till Mrs. Mallory fell asleep again. 

“ She is asleep,” Kit reported, stealing out of the 
room. “And, Symantha, you don’t know how sensi- 
bly she talked.” 

“ What did she say } ” asked Symantha. 

“Oh, not much; only she asked me if I thought 
any one could be saved who had denied their Lord. 
And I told her yes, and read her what it says about 
Peter. Then she tried to remember a verse ; and I 
found it, and read it to her. It was about the blood 
of Christ cleansing us from all sin, you know.” 

“ Well } ” 

“ Then she asked if I knew a hymn about that ; 
and I told her I did, and sung it for her. Then she 
whispered to herself a little while. I think she was 
praying,” said Kit with a look and tone of awe. 
“And finally she went to sleep.” 

“ That does seem as if she were getting better,” 
said Phin. “Kit, if she does, there is nothing I 
won’t do for you.” 


254 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


Symantha shook her head sadly. “ Her mind may 
get better, but her body won’t,” said she. “ Can’t 
you see how it is, father .? ” 

“You think it is the lighting-up for death ” 

“ I think so,” said Symantha ; “ and I don’t know 
that we ought to wish it otherwise, if she dies 
happy.” 

Phin sighed deeply. “Well, no, I suppose not; 
but this world will be an empty place when she is 
gone. Symantha, I haven’t been a good father to 
you, I haven’t been good at any thing that I know 
of; but I do thank you for your kindness and pa- 
tience with that poor thing.” 

“ Then, if I have done any thing for her, do some- 
thing for me,” said Symantha: “stay away from 
Oldbury, and let the drink alone.” 

Phin shook his head, but he said no more ; nor did 
Symantha pursue the subject any further. 



CHAPTER XIV. 


MISS VAN ZANDT. 

Great was the amazement of all the school-girls 
to see Kit, neatly dressed, and book in hand, walk 
into the schoolhouse Friday evening, and seat herself 
among the children. 

“There is Kit,” whispered Ruth to Selina. “1 
wonder if she has run away.” 

“ I dare say she has. I know she said her uncle 
would not let her come.” 

“Well, for my part, I believe in children doing as 
they are tolj^, about going to meeting or any thing 
else. I wonder why she has not been in school.” 

“ Her aunt is worse,” replied Selina. “ Dr. ChaSe 
went up to see her this morning. He told father 
she was in the last stage of consumption.” 

Never had the Friday-evening services in the r^d- 
schoolhouse district been ^o yrell , attended as they 
were this summer. Perhaps this increased attend- 
ance might be partly owing to the fact that the r^ 
schoolhouse had never before been so comfortable. 
Certainly it was much more agreeable to spend an 
hour in a clean, well-aired, cool room, fresh and 

255 


256 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


fragrant with the smell of flowers and green leaves, 
than to pass the same time in a hot, fusty apartment, 
unventilated since the afternoon school session, with 
air heavy enough to have put hundred-eyed Argus 
asleep. Miss Van Zandt’s singing might also be an 
attraction. But I am inclined to think there was 
more in the case than either, and that a gracious 
influence was stirring the air, not only in the red- 
schoolhouse district, but in the whole parish of Old- 
ham. 

Kit had counted on a word with Miss Armstrong 
either before or after the meeting, but neither she nor 
Mrs. Van Zandt was present. Mr. Bassett opened 
the service, as usual, with a hymn : and some of the 
elder people smiled at the earnestness with which 
the children joined in the singing ; and more than 
one turned to look at Kit, whose voice sounded out 
beautifully clear and full of expression. 

“ Did you ever ! ” whispered Ruth. Who ever 
would have guessed that poor child had such a 
voicp ” 

. jlejina did not answer, but her face wore any thing 
but a pleased expression. The service went on as 
usual, except that more people spoke, and almost 
every one of the children had a text, or a verse from 
some favorite hymn. Miss Celia made a few re- 
marks, in her silvery, tremulous voice. They were 
very simple. She said she had been young, and now 
was old ; she had passed through many severe trials, 
some of (which were well known to her friends, and 
others only to her heavenly Father : but she wished 
to say that in all of them she had been helped and 


M/SS VAN ZANDT. 


257 


comforted by Divine Love. It was a support which 
had never failed her. She had enjoyed it all her life, 
and she hoped the dear children and young people 
present might be as happy in this respect as she had 
been. 

That was all she said. It was commonplace 
enough, if such a subject can ever be commonplace ; 
but it was spoken with an expression of inward con- 
viction which sent it home to almost every heart 
present. 

“ Are there any more remarks 1 ” asked Mr. Bas- 
sett. There was a short silence; and then a clear 
little voice sounded from the low bench in front, 
where the little children sat : — 

Please, Mr. Bassett, will you ask the people to 
pray for aunt Martha, because she is very sick, and 
the doctor says she won’t live but a little while.” 

Everybody looked round in’ surprise. Kit had 
risen to her feet in her earnestness, and stood with 
her shining eyes fixed on the good miller’s face, while 
the carnation color mantled beautifully in her cheeks. 
More than one mother felt the tears very near 'iher 
eyes as they rested on the poor little motherless 
child, who stood so evidently thinking of nothing but 
the request she had made ; and more than one prayer 
went up then and there on her behalf and that of the 
invalid. 

There was the usual little pause for neighborly 
chat when the service was/)ver. 

“ Why, Kit ! how did you come here 1 ” asked 
Sarah. 

Uncle Phin let me come,” answered Kit. ‘^And 


258 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 

only think, Sarah, he says I may go to Sunday 
school ! ” 

“ How glad I am ! ” said Sarah, bending to kiss 
the face turned to her. ‘‘ But where have you been 
these two days ? " 

I could not leave aunt Martha. She is very sick, 
and she likes to have me sing and read to her.” 

‘‘ Is she sensible ? ” 

*‘Yes, almost all the time now, though she isn’t 
quite right. She thinks I am her daughter, and she 
can’t bear to have me away from her when she is 
awake ; but she isn’t unhappy, as she used to be, and 
she prays a great deal. But, Sarah, I wonder where 
Miss Armstrong is. I thought I should see her 
this evening.” 

“ I don’t know, I am sure. Let us ask Selina. — 
Selina, where is Miss Armstrong "i ” 

*‘She has gone to New York with Mrs. Van 
Zandt. They had a telegram that some friend of 
theirs is very low, — not expected to live. Miss 
Armstrong thought she could not go at first ; but 
Miss Van Zandt must needs offer to teach the school 
while she was away, so she got ready, and started 
off in Mrs. Van Zandt’s carriage to catch the train 
at Oldbury.” 

“ I don’t see why you should speak so scornfully, 
Selina,” said Faith. ‘'For my part, I think it is 
very kind of Miss Van Zandt.” 

“ Well, I don’t want to be going to school to a girl 
only two or three years older than I am.” 

“What difference does her age make, so long as 
she knows more than we do } ” asked Faith very 


M/SS VAN ZANDT. 


259 


sensibly. Selina made no reply. ** I’ll tell you what 
it is, Selina, you will end by hating Miss Van Zandt, 
if you don’t mind,” continued Faith earnestly. I 
don’t see how you can feel so. What harm has she 
ever done to you 1 ” 

“I never said she had done me any harm,” re- 
turned Selina. “I think she puts herself forward, 
and makes herself ridiculous by taking so much on 
herself; but, as to hating, I never troubled myself 
enough about her to do that.” And yet Selina did 
hate Ida, and she knew it. 

** Where is Patience to-night. Faith?” asked Mrs. 
Weston. 

She isn’t very well, and she had so much to do 
she thought she couldn’t come. I wanted her to let 
me do up the work, but she wouldn’t.” 

That is a pity,” said Mrs. Weston. “ It would 
have done her good. — Come, Selina ; we must be 
going.” 

The children were early at the schoolhouse next 
morning, eager to see their new teacher, whom they 
were all prepared to like. 

“ Who do you think came to Bible class with me 
last night?” said Agnes as she joined the group of 
older girls. “ No less a person than Milly Rich- 
mond.” 

Milly Richmond ! ” exclaimed Selina. ‘‘I don’t 
believe it. She laughs at the very idea.” 

She came, for all that. We sat close by the 
door, and went away the very first minute we could.” 

“ But how did it happen ? ” 

“ Well, I asked her. You see, Milly and I have 


26o OLDHAM ; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

never been very good friends,” said Agnes with some 
embarrassment; ‘‘and I think perhaps. I have been 
hard upon her, so I have been trying to make up. 
I did not believe she would come to the service : but 
I remembered what Dr. Madison said about charity 
at home, and I thought there would be no harm in 
trying ; so I asked her, as I said, and she asked me 
if I really meant it. ‘ Of course,’ I said ; and then 
she said, well, she did not mind for once, only she 
would like to sit by the door, because it was so 
warm.” 

“ How did she like it } ” asked Sarah. 

“ I asked her, and she said she didn't know, her- 
self ; she should have to think about it. And after 
that she never said another word all the way home.” 

“ Is it true, Agnes, that you are going to be con- 
firmed next time the Bishop comes } ” asked Faith. 

“ Quite true,” answered Agnes. 

“ I should think you were pretty young to take 
such a step,” remarked Ruth. “ Why don’t you wait 
till you are older } ” 

“ Why should I } ” asked Agnes. “ I am fifteen, 
and I don’t think I shall know my own mind any 
better if I wait till I am twenty or forty.” 

“ Perhaps you would not know it as well,” observed 
Sarah. 

“ If you think it so nice in Agnes, why don’t you 
come forward yourself.?” asked Selina with some- 
thing of a sneer, — an expression which was becom- 
ing so habitual to her that it threatened to spoil her 
pretty face. 

“I mean to,” said Sarah briefly. She paused a 


MISS VAN ZANDT. 


261 


moment, and then added with an evident effort, “And, 
girls, I want to say something : I want to ask your 
pardon, and especially yours, Selina, for all the sharp 
and hateful things I have said. I know that is my 
besetting sin, as Mr. Bassett said last night, and I 
am going to try and do better ; so I hope you will all 
forgive me.” 

The girls looked at each other in amazement. 
Sarah was a very proud girl, and such an acknowl- 
edgment had a double force coming from her. 

“ I am sure I do, if there is any thing to forgive, 
though I never laid up any thing against you,” said 
Faith. “ You are so nice in other ways, that I never 
minded your sharp speeches.” 

“ And you, Selina } ” 

“Oh, I forgive you, of course, since you ask me, 
though I do think you have treated me shamefully,” 
said Selina coldly. “ I only hope your goodness will 
last, that’s all.” And Selina turned and went into 
the schoolhouse. 

“ That’s a queer kind of forgiveness,” said Faith. 
“I think Selina is queer, anyhow.” 

“ Oh, well, never mind,” said Sarah. “ I have 
been aggravating to her, I know. Here comes Miss 
Van Zandt. Doesn’t she look pretty in her brown- 
linen dress and blue ribbons } We must do all we 
can to help her, girls. I don’t suppose she has ever 
taught before.” 

But those of the school — they were very few — 
who were inclined to take liberties with their young 
teacher soon found that they had reckoned without 
their host. Miss Van Zandt had a ready wit and 


262 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


a quick eye, besides a fund of imperturbable good- 
nature. In the geography class she delighted the 
girls by her descriptions of places she had seen in 
England, and promised next day to bring some photo- 
graphs of cathedrals and of natural scenery. 

** Of what place were we just speaking ? ** asked 
Ida, turning to Selina, who was making an elaborate 
display of taking no interest in the lesson. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Selina : “ I was not listen- 
ing.” 

“ Next,” said Miss Van Zandt. 

‘"York,” was the instant answer; and to Selina’s 
infinite disgust, and the amusement of the other 
girls, Ruth Jewsbury went above her. 

“ I don’t think that is fair. Miss Van Zandt,” said 
Selina. ** I knew the answer.” 

“ I dare say you did ; but you said, yourself, you 
were not paying attention. Next : For what is New- 
castle noted ? ” And that was all Selina gained by 
her manoeuvre. When noon-time came, Ida re- 
quested the elder girls to remain for a few minutes. 

I have a few words to say to you, young ladies,” 
said she. ‘‘ As you know, I have taken the place of 
my friend Miss Armstrong for a little time, in order 
that the school may not be closed while she is away. 
I have not much experience, at least in a day-school ; 
and it is very likely that I may make some mistakes. 
What I have to ask is, that you older girls, who are 
the leaders in the school, will help me by throwing 
your influence upon the side of law and order. Lit- 
tle girls are apt to follow the lead of large girls ; and, 
if the children see you desirous to maintain the char- 


MISS VAN ZANDT. 


263 


acter of the school during your teacher’s absence, 
they will do the same. Not that I have any thing 
to complain of,” she hastened to add : “on the con- 
trary, you have all been very kind to me.” 

“•I don’t see how we could be any thing else,” 
said Sarah. “I don’t think you will have any trouble 
with the children. Miss Van Zandt : they are good 
little things.” 

“ I don’t believe I shall have any trouble with any- 
body,” said Miss Van Zandt. “ Does any one know 
where Kitty is } ” 

“ I suppose she is at home,” answered Sarah. 
“ Her aunt is very sick. Dr. Chase says she can 
only live a few days. And she has taken such a 
fancy to Kit, she cannot bear her out of sight. She 
thinks Kit is her daughter.” 

“ Poor woman ! ” said Miss Van Zandt. “ Well, 
girls, I don’t know that I have any more to say, and 
I am keeping you from your dinners. I hope and 
believe that we shall have a very pleasant report to 
make to Miss Armstrong when she comes home.” 

“ How long will she be gone ” asked Faith. 

“ The time is uncertain, because it depends upon 
her friend’s health, — probably not more than ten 
days, possibly two weeks.” 

“ And are you going to teach the school all that 
time } ” asked Selina with an emphasis on the “ you.” 

“I fully intend to do so at present,” answered 
Miss Van Zandt, not in the least ruffled. “ Why do 
you ask .? ” 

“ Oh, nothing ; only, if Miss Armstrong is going to 
be away so long, I should suppose the trustees would 


264 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

engage some grown-up person to take charge of the 
school.” 

The girls looked at each other in indignant amaze- 
ment as Selina gave vent to this piece of imperti- 
nence, but Miss Van Zandt only smiled. 

“ How much taller would you like rne to be ? ” she 
asked, erecting her beautiful figure to its full height. 
“If the trustees get any one much more grown up, 
they will have to raise the roof or lower the floor. 
Pray, how old are you, Selina ? ” 

“She is fifteen,” said Agnes, as Selina did not 
answer. 

“Exactly, and I am nineteen. You seem to feel 
tolerably grown up, yourself, I think ; and so you see 
I have a right to feel four years more grown up than 
you are.” 

“Please, Mith Dan Want, ma says will ^00 tome to 
dinner, because ith’s all weady,” said a small child, 
inserting a curly black head into a crack in the door. 

“Thank you, my dear; but who is ma.?” asked 
Ida. 

“ It is Emma Bassett,” said Faith. “What a shame 
of me ! Mrs. Bassett called me this morning, and 
told me to be sure to tell Miss Van Zandt to come 
to dinner ; and I forgot it.” 

“ Well, ith’s all weady,” said the curly head ; “ and 
there’s chewy-pie.” 

“ Indeed ! Then I must certainly come, and some 
of you must eat the lunch Aggy put up for me. 
There are some nice bananas in the basket, girls, 
if you like them.” 

“Well, Selina, I do hope you feel better,” said 


MISS VAN- ZANDT 


265 


Ruth Jewsbury. “You have made a nice figure of 
yourself, I must say. I should think you would be 
ashamed.’* 

Selina was surprised and vexed; for Ruth had 
hitherto been somewhat rebellious to Miss Arm- 
strong, and she had looked to her for support in her 
attempt to put down Miss Van Zandt. 

“ She didn’t make much by it, anyway,” said Faith, 
“only to turn the laugh on herself.” 

“ Selina, what does make you act so ? ” asked 
Agnes seriously. “I should think you might be 
pleased at having such a pleasant young lady for a 
teacher, instead of some one like — Miss Priscilla 
Davis, for instance.” 

“ Dear me ! what did I do } ” asked Selina. “ One 
would think I had murdered some one, at the very 
least.” 

“You tried to insult Miss Van Zandt, and only 
succeeded in making yourself ridiculous, — that’s 
what you did. — Didn’t she, girls } ” 

“That was what it came to,” answered Agnes, 
“but I don’t think she will make much by it. — Come, 
Selina ; do think better of it. I don’t see why we 
should not have a very good time with Miss Van 
Zandt, if we all turn to and support her. I am sure 
nothing could be nicer than her ways this morning. 
And how interesting she made the geography class !” 

“Oh, yes, of course. It is all Miss Van Zandt 
now, and dear Miss Armstrong is nobody and no- 
where,” said Selina. “ Last week you thought there 
was nobody like Miss Armstrong.” 

“ And I think so now,” returned Agnes. “ I have 


266 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

a right to, for she is the best friend I ever had, ex- 
cept my mother. I never could pay her for what she 
has done for me, if I were to live a hundred years. 
But I think the best way I can show my love for her 
in her absence is to respect and help her friend who 
has taken her place.” 

“Agnes talks like a book, and she is right,” said 
Ruth. “I never was so wonderfully fond of Miss 
Armstrong as some of you, — as Selina was when 
she first came, for instance, — but I think she is an 
excellent teacher; and, as for Miss Van Zandt, I 
think she is lovely.” 

“Yes, because she let you go up in the geography 
class, — a thing you never did before,” retorted Selina. 
“ Oh, well, I don’t propose to have any words about 
it,” she added loftily. “ You can all flatter and bow 
down to Miss Van Zandt as much as you please, for 
all me. I shall not, that’s all.” 

And certainly Selina kept her word by doing all 
in her power to make Ida’s work as disagreeable as 
possible. Ida tried the effect of a gentle remon- 
strance, but it did no good. Selina denied having 
done any thing wrong ; and, when one instance after 
another of disrespect and disobedience was brought 
home to her, she burst into tears, declared that every 
one was against her because she was an orphan, and 
because she would not pretend to be religious. She 
was in every one’s way, nobody loved her, and she 
wished she was dead. 

Much perplexed, Ida sought a private interview 
with Mrs. Weston, and laid the case before her. 

“I don’t think I have been unjust to Selina,” said 


M/SS VAN ZANDT. 


267 


she. She is the only one I have any trouble with ; 
but, really, she is so disrespectful that I do not know 
what to do with her.” 

** I can understand it,” said Mrs. Weston, sighing. 
** Selina is very trying when she takes one of her 
perverse fits, and I hardly know how to manage her 
myself. It is not fair, however, that you should be 
troubled with her ; and I think I will keep her at 
home for the present.” 

That seems a pity,” remarked Ida. ** Perhaps if 
you were to talk to her ” — 

“ I fear that would do no good ; she seems only 
to resent it. But I will consult her father, and see 
what he thinks it best to do.” 

The result of the consultation was, that Selina 
found herself taken out of school, and set to work 
about the house and dairy. The change was not at 
all to her taste ; but she was too proud to complain, 
and took great pains to show that she did not care. 


CHAPTER XV. 


MORE CHANGES. 

Kit had not been able to attend the school regu- 
larly since it had been under Ida’s administration, 
though she had managed to slip away two or three 
times for an afternoon. Mrs. Mallory was failing 
rapidly. Dr. Chase came to see her, and told her 
friends there was nothing to be done. 

She may last six weeks, or she may drop away 
at any moment,” said he, in answer to a question 
from Phin. “Get her to take nourishing food and 
the tonic I have left her, and keep her as quiet as 
possible. I should not be surprised if her mind 
should clear at the last. I am glad to see her so 
well taken care of.” 

“She has had all I could give her,” said Phin. 
“I don’t amount to much, but I have tried to be 
good to her.” 

“It is easy to see that, by the way she confides 
in you,” replied the doctor kindly. “ But I don’t see, 
Mr. Mallory, why you should not amount to as much 
as any one in the county. Why not ?” 

“Too late,” said Phin. “When a man has sold 
himself to the devil, he can’t break the bargain.” 

268 


MO/^E dfAJVGES. 269 

“ Perhaps not ; but there is One who can, and who 
will if you turn to Him.” 

Phin shook his head. ** I don’t know,” said he ; 
sometimes I think so, but — Well, there! we 
won’t talk about it. It* is too late for me, anyhow ; 
but I’d like to think there was a good time ahead for 
that poor thing in there.” 

*‘I believe there is, as surely as I believe in my 
own existence,” said the doctor. 

“Well, I hope so. You will call again, doctor.?” 

“ I will if you wish it ; but I tell you frankly, I can 
do nothing for her.” 

It was a solemn, but, on the whole, not an unhappy 
time for Kit. Phin staid at home, not drinking at all, 
but attending to his farm-work, and taking care of 
his wife. As Kit said, he was always good-natured 
when he did not drink. Kit helped Symantha with 
the work, waited on Mrs. Mallory, and, when she had 
a little time, studied her school-lessons, and read in 
her Testament, which she now produced without fear 
in her uncle’s presence. Phin did not even laugh at 
her ; and when Melissa, who came home for a Sunday, 
began her old fashion of teasing, she was promptly 
silenced by her father. 

“ Let the child alone. She is doing the work you 
ought to be about, by rights ; and she shall read what 
she pleases. Perhaps it would be all the better for 
you if you read something of the same kind, instead 
of the stuff you do.” 

“ Dear me, how good we are, all at once I ” said 
Melissa, with a toss of her head ; but she did not ven- 
ture any further, knowing, that, if she came to an out- 


OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


and-out contest with her father, she was sure to get 
the worst of it. She took her departure on Monday, 
unregretted by any one. Mrs. Mallory was afraid of 
her, and she and Symantha were never comfortable 
together. The next week a letter was received from 
her, saying that she was going to a place in New 
York ; and that was the last that was heard of her 
for many a long day. 

Mrs. Mallory failed every day; and, as so often 
happens in such cases, as her body decayed, her 
mind grew clear and calm. The old despairing wail 
was never heard now. Kit had learned to watch and 
anticipate her moods, and, as soon as she saw the 
cloud coming, she would begin to sing, or read in the 
Testament ; and the remedy was always successful. 
After a while Kit ventured to ask the meaning of 
things which she did not understand, and was sur- 
prised at the clearness of the explanations she received. 

I do think aunt Martha is as sensible as any-- 
body now,” Kit said one day to Symantha. *‘You 
don’t know how nicely she explained my Sunday- 
school lesson to me. But, Symantha, she seems to 
think I am her little girl ; and she wants me to call 
her ‘ mother.’ Isn’t it funny } Did she ever have a 
little girl } ” 

“ Yes, she had a child who would have been about 
your age,” answered Symantha, bending over her 
work. ‘‘Call her ‘ mother’ if it pleases her. It won’t 
do any hurt.” 

“ I do,” said Kit. “ But isn’t it queer that she 
should be crazy about that, when she seems all right 
about every thing else ? ” 


MORE CHANGES. 


271 


** Not at all,’’ replied Symantha : “ people often are 
that way. I read of a man who thought he was a 
glass bottle, though he was straight enough about 
every other subject. He was always afraid people 
were going to break him. Isn’t this the day for your 
singing-class ” 

“ Yes ; but I didn’t know whether you could spare 
me. 

** Oh, yes, I will manage. I will tell ma you have 
gone to learn some new hymns for her. Put on your 
other frock, and run along while she is asleep ; and 
you will have a little time in school.” 

Kit had carried her point about going to Sunday 
school, and a very happy though very shy little girl it 
was who presented herself at the church door the first 
Sunday morning in August. For the church repairs 
were quite finished now. The painting was done, the 
belfry made-secure, the aisles carpeted, and the weedy, 
brambly graveyard reduced to such order and neatness, 
that, as Edward Kettle said, it wouldn’t know itself. 
The ladies regarded the result of their work with great 
satisfaction, and Mr. Blandy remarked with great com- 
placency that we had made a good piece of work of it. 

“ Whose class would you like to be in, Kitty } ” 
asked Mr. Bassett, the superintendent. 

“ I don’t care,” answered Kit ; “ only I think I had 
better go with the little ones, because I don’t know 
any thing hardly.” 

“ I think I shall put you in my wife’s class,” said 
the superintendent ; and Kit was quite content, for, 
like every child that came near her, she dearly loved 
“ Ma Bassett.” 


2/2 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

‘‘ Well, how did Kit get on ? ” asked Mr. Bassett 
of his wife after school. 

Nicely,” answered Mrs. Bassett ; “ no child could 
behave better. And as to her not knowing any thing, 
she has more Scripture in her head, and her heart 
too, than half the grown people in town. It is won- 
derful to see such a growth of grace in a child who 
has had so little teaching.” 

‘‘Grace is not dependent on human means, hap- 
pily,” remarked her husband. “ Did she say any 
thing about her aunt } ” 

“ Only that she is failing. Dr. Chase says she can- 
not live many days. He says, too, what I was glad 
to hear, that they are very kind to the poor thing, 
and that it is easy to see, by the way she depends 
upon her husband, that he is habitually good to her.” 

“ Well, I am sorry for Phin Mallory,” observed Mr. 
Bassett. “ I don’t think we have treated him quite 
right, either. After all, nobody really knows any 
harm of him, so far as his conduct goes, except that 
he drinks now and then. Can’t you make an errand 
up there, ma } Perhaps you might get a chance to 
talk to him.” 

“I can try, at any rate. If he is so fond of his 
wife, he won’t be likely to insult any one who comes 
to do her a kindness.” 

Accordingly, next day Mrs. Bassett presented her- 
self at Phin Mallory’s door with a little basket of 
ripe apricots, the first of the season, and some other 
dainties, for the invalid. But she could not flatter 
herself that her visit had any very particular result. 
She did not see Symantha, who was lying down 


MO/^E CHANGES, 


273 


with a headache. Phin took her into his wife^s room, 
and she exchanged a few words with the invalid, who 
was much pleased with the prettily decorated basket 
of fruit, and made her acknowledgments in a way 
which showed her to be a cultivated, well-bred 
woman. Mrs. Bassett’s womanly eye remarked with 
pleasure the delicate neatness of every thing about 
the sick woman, and the gentleness of her husband’s 
manner toward her ; but Mrs. Mallory was so weak 
that she did not venture to prolong her visit. 

‘‘Good-by, Mrs. Mallory. I hope you will let us 
know if we can do any thing for you.” 

“Thank you,” answered Mrs. Mallory, “but I have 
the best of care ; and it is an unspeakable comfort 
to have my little girl with me again.” 

“Whom does she mean by her little girl.!*” asked 
Mrs. Bassett when they had left the room. 

“She means Kit,” answered Phin. “She thinks 
Kit is her daughter; and we let her think so, since 
she takes comfort in it. There isn’t much use in 
arguing with crazy people.” 

“ Not a bit of use,” agreed Mrs. Bassett. “ Kit is a 
dear child. I am so glad you let her come to Sunday 
school ! Miss Cdia Claxton was saying Sunday, she 
remembered your sister Chloe coming to church and 
Sunday school when she was just about Kit’s age.” 

“Yes, Chloe was a good girl: she took after my 
mother. But she died young.” 

“ So Celia was saying. She was telling me how 
happy she was in her last sickness and death. It is 
a blessed thing, Mr. Mallory, to have one’s dying 
pillow smoothed by such a hope.” 


2/4 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“Well, perhaps it is-,” replied Phin, with some- 
thing of a sigh. “But what if it turns out all a delu- 
sion, and there should be no such thing as heaven 
and the rest of it, after all ? ” 

“ Well, what if it does ? ” answered Mrs. Bassett 
with spirit. “Then I s-hall be just as well off as you 
are, and there won’t be much danger of your laugh- 
ing at me, as somebody says. But if I am right, and 
you are wrong, you will be making rather an awful 
mistake, Mr. Mallory.” 

“There is something in that,” admitted Phin. 
“Anyhow, I am willing folks should take all the com- 
fort they can.” 

“ But won’t you think about it yourself, Mr. Mal- 
lory ? Won’t you come to our Friday-evening meet- 
ing.?” 

“Well, no, I guess not. Folks wouldn’t want me 
there.” 

“You are very much mistaken,” answered Mrs. 
Bassett eagerly. “We should all be very glad to 
see you. Only come, and see if you don’t have a 
welcome.” 

“I will see about it. Well, Mrs. Bassett, I am 
very much obliged to you for coming to see my wife, 
and for your kindness to Kit. You and your hus- 
band live up to what you profess, anyhow ; and that 
is more than most folks do, even according to their 
own showing. I heard two church-members talking 
in Oldbury the last time I was there, and it was all 
about the worldliness of the churches, and how little 
they were doing.” 

“ They might have been better employed.” 


MORE CHANGES. 


275 


thought so myself. It was a little too much 
like the ill bird that spoils its own nest. Td stick 
up for my own side, anyhow.’^ 

“ Well, Mr. Mallory, if you need help any time, I 
hope you won't hesitate to ask for it. Celia and 
Delia Claxton told me to say that they would come 
and sit up any night." 

“ Much obliged, but I take care of my wife myself 
nights. — Old cats! they just want to satisfy their 
curiosity, and find something to talk about,” muttered 
Phin to himself as he returned to his wife’s room. 
“ And yet I won’t say that, either. It was kind of 
them to offer, anyhow.” 

But Mrs. Mallory was soon to be beyond the need 
of earthly aid. That night she seemed better and 
brighter than usual. She talked to Kit about her 
Sunday-school lesson, and heard her read and sing, 
as usual. After Kit had gone to bed, Mrs. Mallory 
called her husband, and had a long private conver- 
sation with him, — so long that Symantha became 
uneasy, and went to the door. 

I am afraid ma is talking too much,” said she. 

' have done now,” said the invalid, smiling 
sweetly as Symantha kissed her. ** I shall not talk 
much more. Good-by, Symantha. You have been 
a kind friend to me ; and I have tried you sadly, I 
know. Be kind to my child, as you have been to 
me. Will you promise me that.?” she asked, holding 
Symantha’s hand, and looking wistfully at her. 

“Yes, ma, I promise you I will always be kind to 
Kit as long as it is in my power. Now lie down 
and go to sleep.” 


2/6 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


Phin remained with his wife, as usual, through the 
night. The sky was just growing bright with the 
approaching sunrise when he opened Symantha’s 
door. 

“ Come quick ! ” said he. 

Symantha lost not a moment. She called Kit, 
and hastened to the bedside. Mrs. Mallory seemed 
to be still sleeping, but her face showed the approach 
of the shadow that never falls but once. Kit saw 
the change, and was awe-struck. 

“ Is she worse ? ” she whispered, taking hold of 
Symantha’s hand. 

** Speak to her, Kit. Call her mother,” said Phin 
hoarsely. 

“ Don’t you feel so well, mother } Shall I get you 
something.^ Dear mother, speak to your own Kitty.” 

The blue eyes were opened, and lighted up for a 
moment with unearthly brilliancy. “Dear child, 
hold fast to your Father in heaven. Never let go 
— never ” — Her voice faltered. 

“ Don’t you know me. Matey ” asked Phin, bend- 
ing over her. The eyes rested on him with a look 
of unutterable tenderness, but the power of speech 
was gone. There was a sweet smile, a long, soft 
sigh, and all was over. The tired and troubled spirit 
had found rest. 

Mrs. Bassett and the two Claxton sisters came 
with offers of neighborly assistance, which were ac- 
cepted by Symantha ; and the last offices were kindly 
and tenderly performed by their friendly hands, as is 
the beautiful custom of the country. Long may it 
continue ! 


M0/^£ CHANGES. 


277 


When the old ladies returned to their home, they 
found Aunt Betsy sitting on the front steps. 

“ So you have come at last,” said she. “ Here I’ve 
been a-waiting and a-waiting as much as half an 
hour. Seems to me it is pretty early for folks to be 
going a-visiting.” 

think as much. Aunt Betsy. What brought 
you here before eight o’clock in the morning } ” re- 
turned Miss Delia. 

I came to borrow some ginger and some molas- 
ses,” snapped Aunt Betsy. And I expect I’ve got 
my death of cold waiting for you. Where have you 
been .? ” 

“Oh, we have been out on business,” answered 
Miss Delia, calmly proceeding to kindle her fire. 
“ Now we are going to have some breakfast if we can 
get a chance. — Celia, will you have tea, or coffee.^” 

“Just as you like,” said Miss Celia, who never had 
any choice in household matters. Delia used to say 
it would never do for her to go away for a whole 
week, since Celia would starve because she could not 
make up her mind what to cook. 

“ Where have you been, anyway } ” demanded Aunt 
Betsy in a tone of exasperation. 

“ We have been up to Phin Mallory’s, helping to 
lay out his wife,” answered Miss Celia. “ The poor 
thing died at sunrise, and Symantha sent Kitty down 
for us.” 

“ Do tell ! Was she alone } ” 

“No : her father was there.” 

“Do tell! Well, and how did you find things.? 
Folks say they kept the poor thing tied down to her 


278 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

bedstead and half starved, and beat her to make her 
quiet” 

“ Folks say more than there is any call for,” an- 
swered Miss Delia. ‘‘It is easy to see that poor 
Mrs. Mallory has been well done for. Her bed, and 
every thing about her, was as neat as wax. Besides, 
Dr. Chase has been to see her several times, and he 
told me himself that it was plain she was well 
treated.” 

“ Well, I don't know. Folks are very deceitful,” 
said Aunt Betsy, evidently disappointed. “ I don’t 
believe she would have screamed so if she hadn’t 
been abused. And when is the funeral to be } ” 

“On Friday, I believe.” 

“ That’s awful quick, seems to me.” 

“Two days, and you know it is very hot weather.” 

“And where will she be buried ? ” 

“ Here, I presume.” 

“Are any of her own folks coming to the funeral.?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know. It is no business of 
mine,” answered Miss Delia, whose patience, never her 
strongest point, began to grow threadbare. “ Celia, 
do come and get your breakfast. You will be fainting 
away. — There is your ginger, Aunt Betsy ; but we 
haven’t any molasses, and sha’n’t have till I get a 
chance to send down to the store. I suppose you 
have had your breakfast, of course, long before this 
time. Good-morning.” 

“ Mean, stingy old maid ! ” said Aunt Betsy as she 
went away with her ginger. 

“ You might have asked her to breakfast,” said Miss 
Celia, coming from the pantry. “ Why didn’t you ? ” 


MORE CHANGES. 


279 


** Because I wanted you to have your breakfast in 
peace. You are like a cat without claws, Celia. It 
is well you have me to do a little scratching for you 
now and then.’^ 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE TEA-PARTY. 

Two days after her death Mrs. Mallory’s body was 
laid in the old churchyard beside the grave of her 
husband’s young sister. Mr. Brace, the new minis- 
ter, officiated ; and a great many people came to the 
funeral. Phin was deeply affected, and broke down 
entirely at the grave. 

Won’t you come into my house, and rest a little 
before you go home, Mr, Mallory ? ” said kind Mrs. 
Andrews, who lived close by the church. 

. “ Yes, do ; you and the girls,” added Mr. Andrews. 

“ You^are very kind, but I think pa will be best at 
home,” said Symantha. He is quite worn out with 
watching.” . 

“ Well, if we can do-any thing for you, you must 
let us know,” said Mr. Andrews as he shook hands 
with Phin. 

“And just let me say one word to you, Phineas,” 
said old Mrs. Bassett. “I, knew ypur. mother and 
your grandmother, so you will excuse an'' old woman’s 
freedom. Don’t go to seeking comfort in drink. 
There may be forgetfulness in it, but there is no 

280 


THE TEA-PARTY. 


281 


peace; and it will only leave you worse than you 
were before. Don’t go looking for comfort in the 
world, my son ; but turn to your wife’s God and your 
mother’s God. He has stricken, and He can bind 
up. Don’t touch the drink, whatever you do.” 

I won’t,” said Phin, pressing her hand ; and at 
the time he meant what he said. For at least a 
month he staid quietly at home, working diligently 
on his farm, mending the fences, and repairing the 
house and barns. He even went twice to the Friday- 
evening service, at Kit’s entreaty, and joined his 
splendid bass voice to the singing. Symantha’s face 
began once more to lose its expression of care and 
apprehension ; and, as to Kit, she was never so happy 
in her life. She went to school every day, and to 
church and Sunday school on Sunday. Melissa, 
hitherto the greatest disturber of her peace, was out 
of the way ; and uncle Phin was always kind nowa- 
days, and let her read her Bible and sing her hymns 
as much as she liked. Her mind expanded every 
day, and she was one of those happy people to whom 
the acquisition of knowledge is a keen delight for its 
own sake. All the girls liked her ; and even Aunt 
Betsy allowed that that ^Mallory young one ” be- 
haved very well when she* was in sight, but made 
herself amends by. adding, “ But she’ll show out 
what is in her yet, you may depend upon it. What’s 
bred in the bone stays long in the flesh.” 

*‘Very true,” said Miss Delia, , to whom the remark 
was addressed. We’ve all got total depravity bred 
in our bones. Aunt Betsy ; and I, for one, haven’t got 
rid of it yet, altogether.” 


282 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“And there’s Phin Mallory coming to the meet- 
ings,” pursued Aunt Betsy. “ We shall have all the 
riffraff in town coming in next.” 

“ I am sure I wish we could,” remarked Mr. Brace, 
the new minister. “ I, for one, should enjoy the sight, 
as our Lord did when the publicans and sinners 
came together to hear Him. What is the Church 
for, Mrs. Burr, if not to gather in just such people as 
those you call riffraff ? ” 

“ I think, sometimes, the Church doesn’t do as 
much of that sort of work as it might,” said Miss 
Delia. 

“ Of course not. The Church does not do as much 
work of any sort as it might. Nevertheless it does 
most of the work that is done in that line. Who 
sustains all the city missions and charities, all the 
mission Sunday schools in low city districts and far- 
away Western towns, all the frontier missionaries and 
those in foreign parts, if not the Church ? You talk 
about riffraff, Mrs. Burr : I should like to take you to 
New York, and show you the lady visitors going fear- 
lessly into neighborhoods where even the policeman 
looks carefully to his revolver before he ventures. 
I should like to take you into one tenement-house I 
know of, where I found a district nurse, a well-edu- 
cated lady, making a fire in a cracked stove, and 
cleaning floor and windows with her own hands, be- 
cause no ordinary charwoman would venture into 
the place. Who does all these things but the Church 
in some of its branches, — that Church which is the 
blessed company of all faithful people ? The Church 
does not accomplish half, no, not a tenth, of what it 


THE TEA-PARTY. 


283 


might if every member thereof were faithful in his 
and her vocation and ministry ; but the world would 
be badly off without it.” 

Mr. Brace spoke with a good deal of earnestness, 
possibly with some little heat, as people are apt to do 
when they feel warmly ; and Aunt Betsy was con- 
firmed in her opinion that he had no proper ministe- 
rial dignity, and would never fill Dr. Munson’s pulpit. 

Phin staid at home, as I have said, for nearly a 
month. Then he felt himself obliged to go to Old- 
bury with a load of hay. 

Why don’t you sell your hay in Oldfield } ” asked 
Symantha. 

“ Because I promised it to Stannard at the tavern, 
and I don’t want to break my word. Don’t you be 
scared, my girl : I’m not going to make a fool of 
myself any more. I’ve turned over a new leaf about 
that. Keep up a good heart, and I’ll bring you and 
Kitty each a new frock if I have good luck with my 
hay.” 

“ I want a piece of cotton sheeting, more than a 
new frock. Kit needs a dress or two, but I thought I 
should get them just as well at Mr. Andrews’s: he 
has some nice black-and-white checks. Anyhow, 
father, do keep away from Stillwell’s.” 

I’m not going near Stillwell’s,” said Phin rather 
angrily. ‘‘ I believe you think your father is a fool.” 
Then, softening as he saw his daughter’s evident dis- 
tress, “Don’t you borrow trouble. I don’t much 
wonder at your doing it, all things considered ; but 
you’ll see I’ll come home all right. I’m no such tow- 
string of a man as you think me.” 


284 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS 

But alas ! what man is not a tow-string when as- 
sailed by old appetites and old temptations, and old 
companions ready to do the Devil’s work, and take 
the Devil’s wages? Phin came home silent and mo- 
rose, He brought no new frocks for anybody ; and 
when Symantha asked him, next day, for money to 
make some needful purchases at the Corners, he re- 
plied shortly that he had none. 

‘‘ I thought you sold your hay,’' said ' Symantha. 
“ Didn’t Stannard pay you ? ” 

‘‘No — yes, partly; but I had to use the money 
another way. Take some of the butter-money, or get 
Andrews to trust you : I’ll make it all right with him.” 

“I thought we agreed to saye the butter-money 
for ma’s grave-stone,” said Symantha. 

“ I can.’t help it,” answered Phin, turning suddenly 
away. “ I’d give you the money if I had it ; but I 
haven’t, and there’s no use talking.” 

Symantha sighed, but said no more. In a few 
days Phin went to Oldbury again, and came home 
so drunk that Symantha and Kit had to take care 
of the team. His visits became more and more fre- 
quent, often lasting two or three days at a time. He 
brought home another keg of beer, and from that 
time was hardly ever sober. He began to talk of 
selling the farm and going West again, and Syman- 
tha was in despair. 

“I did think we were settled at last,” said she. 
“ I thought I was to have a home.” 

“ Well, have a home. Who hinders you ? ” said 
her father roughly. “You and Kit can hire a room 
somewhere, and take care of yourselves.” 


THE TEA-PARTY. 285 

You know I won’t do that, father. I shall never 
leave you.” 

“ Maybe I shall leave you,” said Phin. ‘‘ It don’t 
follow, because I am going to destruction, that I need 
drag you after me. — Well, there, you needn’t cry, 
Kit : I haven’t gone yet.” 

** I can’t help crying when you talk so,” sobbed Kit. 
“O uncle Phin! do be good. You have been so 
nice lately, and gone to church, and all. I did think 
you were going to turn out a Christian.” 

“I almost thought so, myself, Kitty; but it’s no 
go,” said Phin, with a hard laugh. “ You see. I’m 
one of those stony-ground hearers that you read 
about the other day, and nothing good will grow in 
me. But you and your friends believe in prayer; 
why don’t you pray for me I ” ^ 

I do,” replied Kit with emphasis, ** every day and 
every night ; and I am going to keep on. You don’t 
believe in God, uncle Phin ; but you can’t get away 
from Him, not in Oldbury nor anywhere else.” . 

Kit kept her word; and her prayers were heard, 
but not in the way she expected or would have 
chosen. 

Meantime the school was prospering in Ida’s hands ; 
arid every one was satisfied, except Aunt Betsy, who 
never was satisfied with any thing. Ida and Amity, 
partly from real compassion, and partly, I fear, for 
the joke’s sake, had set themselves to work to con- 
-ciliate the old woman. Ida, who had a genius for 
millinery, made her a pretty cap, and Amity carried 
her a pound of very fine green tea, such as she liked ; 
but all to no purpose. Aunt Betsy admitted that 




286 OLDHAM 'y OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


the cap looked tolerably well, considering : she sup- 
posed it was fudged up out of some of Mrs. Van 
Zandt’s old ones. As to the tea, she thought it was 
a queer color. 

“That is because it is not colored at all,” explained 
Amity, always sweet and unruffled. “Most green 
teas are dyed, you know ; but my aunt had this tea 
in a present from a Chinese gentleman who was a 
correspondent of my uncle’s for many years, and 
who understands about such matters. He sends my 
aunt a chest of this tea every year. It cannot be 
bought in this country.” 

“ Oh, yes, I dare say he makes her think so,” was 
Aunt Betsy’s reply. “ I always heard them Chinese 
were up to all kinds of tricks. ■ — They thought they 
were going to coax me round,” she said to Miss 
Jewsbury afterward, in relating the interview; “but 
I let them know that I wasn’t going to be patron- 
ized.” 

“ Well, I’m sure I wish she would patronize me 
that way,” said Miss Jewsbury, who loved green tea, 
and did not often get it. “ Do give me a drawing of 
it. Aunt Betsy. You might let me have it all if you 
don’t want it. My girls don’t like green tea, and I 
hardly ever have any.” 

“ I never said I didn’t like it, and you are as well 
able to buy tea as I am,” was the reply. However, 
I suppose I can let you have a cupful. You can 
pay me in cheese.” 

But, though Aunt Betsy was not to be won over, 
Ida had plenty of friends. Even the Jewsbury girls 
liked her, and behaved better in school than they 


THE TEA-PARTY, 


287 

had ever done before. The truth was, that Ruth had 
grown secretly tired of her rebellion against Miss 
Armstrong, and was glad of a pretext for giving it up ; 
and her younger sister followed her lead, as a matter 
of course. Ida had the teaching gift. She loved the 
children and the work for their own sake. She 
enjoyed success and popularity, as who does not ? and 
it was a source of exquisite pleasure to her to see the 
eyes brighten and the cheeks flush as she told them 
some story of heroism or self-sacrifice, growing out 
of and illustrating the history or geography lesson. 
The children began to repeat these stories at home. 
Miss Priscilla Davis, who had wanted the school for 
herself, pronounced it queer kind of teaching, — 
making a geography lesson like a novel. But Mr. 
Bassett declared he meant to put on a roundabout and 
pinafore, and come to school himself. 

“ I have a very interesting letter to read to you, 
girls, if you like to stay a few minutes after school,” 
said Ida one day. ‘‘You can do just as you please 
about it.” 

All chose to stay ; and Miss Van Zandt produced 
her letter, which was from a friend engaged in the 
flower mission in New York. 

“What is a flower mission ? ” asked Ednah Fletcher. 

Ida explained the matter as well as it could be ex- 
plained to children who had never seen a tenement- 
house or a city court, and whose notions of the state 
of poor people were taken from Aunt Betsy and 
others like her. 

“ How dreadful ! ” said Faith. “ But, Miss Van 
Zandt, what makes people stay in such places?” 


' 288 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL HEATERS. 

“Many are obliged to do so. They must live 
near their work, and rents are fearfully high in New 
York. Others know no better, and, if they did, have 
no means to get away. But, suppose you lived in 
such a place as my friend describes, would not you be 
glad to see some one who came to you with a bunch 
of flowers or a nice little plant ? ” 

“Yes, indeed!” answered several voices; and 
Ednah added regretfully, “I do like to go to Ma 
Bassett’s in winter, and see her plants. They look 
so nice when there is nothing but ice and snow out- 
side I ” 

“ Then you can think how nice such plants would 
be if there were nothing but dirty streets and courts 
to be seen outside,” said Ida. “ But, Ednah, does not 
your sister keep plants ? ” 

“ No, ma’am. She says they make so much dirt 
in the house.” 

“ Miss Van Zandt, why couldn’t we send a box of 
flowers to your friend ? ” said Ruth Jewsbury. “ The 
golden-rods are beautiful now, and they last a long 
time.” * 

“ I declare ! that is an excellent idea,” said Agnes. 
“If we sent buds, they would bloom out in water.” 

“Golden-rod is so common, I should not think that 
they would care for that,” said one of the children. 

“Not very common in New York, my dear.” 

“ Don’t it grow by the side of the road in New 
York.?” asked Eben Fletcher innocently. 

The older children laughed, and Miss Van Zandt 
explained the matter. 

“Well, I wouldn’t live in such a place, not if you 


THE TEA-PARTY. 289 

was to give me fifty dollars,” said the little boy 
positively. 

‘‘Nor I, not long at a time,” replied Miss Van 
Zandt ; “ but you must remember, Eben, that there 
are advantages and disadvantages everywhere. — I 
will talk this matter of sending flowers over with my 
aunt, girls, and we will see what can be done.” 

The next day Ida again asked the girls to stay 
after school. 

“ My aunt is much pleased with your idea of send- 
ing a box of flowers, girls,” said she. “ Now, how 
many of you are willing to take your holiday to-mor- 
row afternoon instead of Saturday, and give the time 
to gathering flowers and ferns ” 

All the children were more than willing, only Faith 
Fletcher demurred. 

“ I should like it very much,” said she, “ but I was 
counting on Saturday afternoon to help sister. She 
isn’t well at all, and I thought I could take some of 
the work off her hands on Saturday.” 

“ What ails your sister } ” asked Ida. 

“ She won’t allow that any thing ails her,” replied 
Faith, “ and she will keep at work all the time ; but 
she grows thin and pale, and I know she has a pain 
in her side. Father wants to have a girl, but she 
won’t hear of it.” 

“ She will find that very poor economy in the end,” 
remarked Ida. “ Well, I will tell you what we can do. 
You can come to school at half-past eight, instead of 
nine, and we will have only half an hour’s intermis- 
sion at noon, and no recess. Then I ^an let you go 
at three o’clock, which will give plenty of time for the 


290 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

flower-gathering. And I must not forget to say that 
aunt Barbara hopes you will all come to her house 
to tea at six o’clock, and bring your flowers.” 

Sha’n’t we go home and get dressed ? ” asked 
Jenny Hurd. “ We sha’n’t look very nice.” 

“ By no means,” answered Ida. Come straight 
from your flower-gathering. Soap and water are 
plenty, and that is all you will need.” 

“ What kind of flowers shall we bring ? any thing 
but golden-rod } ” 

Oh, yes ! all the flowers you can lay hands on, — 
yarrow and daisies and cockle, and, above all, plenty 
of green.” 

“I think a parcel of ferns would be nice,” observed 
Kit. “I know where there are lovely ones, — ever 
so many kinds.” 

“They will be just the thing.” 

It was a very pretty sight that greeted the eyes of 
Mrs. Van Zandt and her nieces as the children pre- 
sented themselves the next evening at six o’clock, 
laden with flowers of all sorts, wild and tame. Mrs. 
Bassett had not dared to let little Emma, who was a 
delicate child, go out with the others ; but, to make 
amends, she had cut almost every flower in her gar- 
den, — dahlias, foxgloves, great spears of hollyhocks, 
and a huge bunch of lemon-thyme and sweet basil. 
Others brought sheaves of golden-rod as big as them- 
selves. There were not many flowers in Oldfield 
County that were not represented in the collection. 
Kit brought a basket of ferns of all sorts, and a 
bunch of lady’s-slippers, which she had found in a 
shady hollow, and another of the branching “bear’s- 


THE TEA-PARTY. 


291 


grass,” or lycopodium. Finally, to crown the whole, 
appeared Edward Kettle with half a wagon-load of 
laurel. He had heard what the young ladies were 
about, he said, and he and his wife took the liberty 
to help them. 

“ What lovely laurel ! ” said Amity. “ I thought it 
was all gone long ago.” 

Edward explained that he had found it, by his 
grandfather’s direction, in a shady hollow far up on 
Indian Hill. “ You see, the old gentleman has always 
lived right there ; and there ain’t many plants nor 
animals round these parts that he don’t know.” 

“ I should like to make his acquaintance,” said 
Amity. “ I have often seen him in church. Do you 
think he would be pleased to have us come and see 
him } ” 

“ Oh, yes, miss. He’s like other old folks, the old 
gentleman is,” said Edward : “ he loves to tell over 
his old stories. Some folks thinks it tiresome, but I 
don’t, — I think it is real interesting ; and anyhow, it 
pleases him.” 

“Well, you will see us up on Indian Hill some 
day soon,” said Amity. “ Meantime I should like 
to send him some tobacco-money, if he won’t be af- 
fronted. I know he smokes sometimes.” 

“ Oh, yes, miss. I don’t think it’s a very good 
habit, myself, but grandfather has done it all his life ; 
and I says to Maria, says I, ‘ When an old man, and 
especially an old Indian, gets to be a hundred years 
old, it ain’t much worth while to try to teach him 
new tricks,’ says I. Not that Maria would want to 
interfere either, — ’tain’t her way ; but Mrs. Hills had 


' 292 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

been talking to her about it, and saying she wouldn't 
have it if it was her. I can stay and wait on the 
table, miss, if it would be any accommodation." 

I dare say Aggy will be glad of your help," said 
Mrs. Van Zandt, to whom Amity referred the matter. 
And, having thus carried the point he had in mind 
when he started from home, Edward proceeded to 
display his gifts in that line, which were not small. 
Never was a more successful tea-party, after the first 
shyness of the children wore off. Old Alice had 
made a bountiful provision of sweets and substan- 
tial. Mrs. Van Zandt had sent to Oldbury for a 
supply of candy, which was put up in pretty boxes, 
and given to the children to carry home, with the 
addition of some nice little present to each. 

“ I wonder if Aunt Betsy would be offended if I 
were to send her some cake,” said Ida to Myra 
Bassett, who had been specially invited, as she was 
putting up a parcel of good things for old Abner. 

“Oh, yes, she’ll be offended; but she will eat 
the cake, all the same,” answered Myra, laughing. 
“ That’s her way. I’ll take it to her if you like : 
I’m used to her." 


CHAPTER XVIL 

MRS. ORME. 

Miss Armstrong had not returned with Mrs. Van 
Zandt, finding business to keep her in New York, 
and hearing that the school was not suffering from 
her absence. When she did come back, she was 
able to tell the children of the safe arrival of their 
box of flowers ; and she brought an urgent request 
from the lady to whom they had been consigned, for 
another box of leaves when the foliage should begin 
to turn. She also brought a quantity of missionary 
documents, which the children carried home to their 
parents, and talked over among themselves. 

“Ma,” said Myra Bassett as she finished reading 
one of these same papers, “why can’t we have a 
mission band in our Sunday school.? Just think! 
here is an Indian church in Minnesota, as poor as 
poverty, giving eighteen dollars in money and bead- 
work for the cause of missions ; ' and our school don’t 
give a cent.” 

“ We take up a collection every Sunday,” said Mrs. . 
Bassett ; “to be sure, it goes to keep up the library.” 

* The White Earth church, which is a pattern in more ways than one. 
See Bishop Whipple’s reports. 


293 


294 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL HEATERS. 

“ Exactly ; and I don’t call that giving, at all. It is 
just like taking money out of one pocket and putting 
it into another. In Oldfield the Sunday school sup- 
ports a Bible-woman in China.” 

“ It wouldn’t do to undertake quite as much as that 
at first, but we might do something,” said Mrs. Bas- 
sett. “ I expect we should have opposition from 
some quarters.” 

“ So we did about cleaning the church, and yet we 
did it,” said Myra. 

“Very true. Well, I’ll talk to your father; and, 
if he don’t see any objection. I’ll ask him to speak to 
Mr. Brace.” 

“I wish Mr. Brace had a wife,” said Myra, who 
had “ a true lover and a sweetheart of her own ” sail- 
ing on the seas, and was therefore not afraid to 
speak. “ It would seem so much more natural and 
easy to go to him.” 

“It is just possible your wish may come to pass,” 
said Mrs. Bassett. “But, as to this notion of the 
mission band, I must say I like it for the children’s 
sake. How much they were interested in the flowers 
they sent to New York ! ” 

“Yes, and their interest did them good too.” 

Ma Bassett talked to her husband, and he in turn 
to Mr. Brace. The subject was then brought up 
in teachers’ meeting. Miss Armstrong was present, 
and, being called upon, said what she thought, — that 
such efforts were as beneficial to those who made 
them as to those for whom they were made. Mr. 
Brace seconded her warmly, and gave anecdotes from 
his experience in other places. There was some 


MRS. ORME. 


295 


opposition, of course ; but most of the teachers took 
up the idea with enthusiasm, and in the course of a 
few weeks the Oldham mission band was a fixed and 
prosperous fact. 

But we. must now follow the fortunes of another 
of our Oldham acquaintances. Selina was down at 
Oldbury staying with her sister, and taking singing- 
lessons of Mr. Schultz, the professor in the famous 
Oldbury schools. Lizzy was fond of Selina, and had 
begun by being much pleased with the arrangement ; 
but she was growing uneasy, and wishing her sister 
at home again. Selina had made the acquaintance 
of a certain Mrs. Orme, who had come up from New 
York, and taken a house for the summer. Mrs. Orme 
was apparently rich, — at least, she spent her money 
freely, — she was handsome, and had a frank, not to 
say free, manner, which took Selina’s fancy greatly. 
There was nothing to be said against the woman, but 
Oldbury did not take to her. Mrs. Orme’s garden 
joined Mr. Woodbury’s, and at her first coming Lizzy 
had shown her some neighborly civilities, though she 
had never responded to her attempts at intimacy. 
Nevertheless, the two families spoke together, and 
Mrs. Orme introduced herself to Selina over the gar- 
den hedge. She had heard her singing, and been 
struck with her fine voice. Mrs. Orme had a piano, 
and was no mean performer herself. She asked Se- 
lina to sing with her, and lent her the latest music. 
Mrs. Orme was in ecstasies over Selina’s voice, and 
threw out broad hints of having her young friend 
to spend the winter with her, that she might have 
proper instruction. . 


296 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

. “ With that voice, and a few lessons in elocution, 
you might do any thing,” said Mrs. Orme. “You 
might make your fortune.” 

“ Singing at concerts, do you mean ^ ” asked Selina. 

“Yes, of course, or on the stage. You needn’t 
look so shocked, child. A great many society ladies 
go on the stage now, just for fun. And, if you don’t 
care to do that, there are always church choirs in 
New York where they will pay almost any price for 
a good soprano voice. You must practise diligently, 
and especially singing at sight, for that is all-impor- 
tant.” 

“ Mr. Schultz says I improve in that, but he was 
very severe on me at the last lesson,” observed 
Selina. He said, ‘ Miss Weston, you do not improve 
in style. You are imitating your friend Mrs. Orme, 
or whatever you call her, who sings in the manner of 
the beer-garden.’ ” 

“ Spiteful old hunchback ! ” said Mrs. Orme, color- 
ing. “ His mind is as crooked as his body, and his 
own style is that of a broken-down church-organ. 
But never mind. Wait till I get you to New York, 
my dear.” 

“ I don’t believe my father and mother will ever 
let me go,” said Selina regretfully. 

“ They are not your own father and mother, and I 
don’t see that you are bound to obey them,” returned 
Mrs. Orme. “ According to your own account, you 
have done work enough to pay for all they ever gave 
you. I don’t doubt that they are very nice people,” 
she hastened to add, seeing that Selina looked rather 
shocked: “I am sure Mrs. Woodbury is charming, 


MRS. ORME. 


297 


if she would condescend to be friendly ; but she 
seems to have taken a dislike to me, for some reason. 
Ah, well, my dear, take pains with your music, and 
improve as fast as possible ; and we shall see what 
can be done.” 

Mrs. Orme was right. Lizzy did not like her, and 
she was annoyed at the intimacy that Selina had 
struck up with her. 

“ I do wish you would not go to Mrs. Orme’s so 
often,” she said to Selina one day. “I am sure 
mother would not approve of it.” 

What have you against Mrs. Orme, I should 
like to know } ” asked Selina in a tone which said, 
“ What business is it of yours } ” 

“ I have nothing against her personally ; that is, 
she has done nothing to me,” answered Lizzy gently. 
‘‘But I do not like her manners, and I don’t like 
such intimacy with a stranger. We know nothing 
at all about Mrs. Orme.” 

“There spoke all Oldham,” said Selina. “We 
don’t know her, therefore she must be bad.” 

“ I did not say she was bad,” returned Lizzy. 
“ But I do say that it is better to know something 
of a person’s antecedents and present standing, be- 
fore rushing into a violent friendship with them.” 

“Don’t you see what an advantage it is to me to 
sing with her I ” 

“I am not so sure of that. Mrs. Orme has a fine 
voice, and plays well ; but I don’t think she has im- 
proved your style at all. Just compare her singing 
with Miss Van Zandt’s.” 

“ Oh, Miss Van Zandt ! I hate the very name of 


298 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Miss Van Zandt ; and I wish she and her model, 
Miss Armstrong, had never come near Oldham. 
They have set father and mother against me, and 
got me into disgrace ; and all for what } Because I 
would not play the hypocrite, and pretend to be reli- 
gious. I believe Miss Armstrong is a humbug, if 
ever there was one ; but then, she can talk pious, and 
whoever can do that goes down with mother.*’ 

I have no more to say, Selina,” returned Lizzy. 
“ Only I hope the time will never come when you 
will need the love and kindness you despise. But 
one thing I must add : I will not have my mother 
treated disrespectfully under my roof by any one. 
Remember that.” 

Who treats her disrespectfully ? ” said Selina. 
“ I guess I love mother as well as you do, any day, 
and would do as much for her, if I don’t flatter her, 
and swear that every thing is right because she does 
it. But everybody is against me,” she added, burst- 
ing into tears. I have always been alone in the 
world ; and, when I make a friend, I can’t be allowed 
to enjoy her, because you are jealous of her. I 
should think you would be ashamed to show such 
a spirit.” 

Heyday ! what is that asked Mr. Woodbury from 
the other room, where he was taking off his boots 
preparatory to reading the evening paper in comfort. 
“ I don’t allow any one to scold my wife but myself, 
Selina. What is that Lizzy is to be ashamed of?” 

Selina deigned no answer, but retreated to her own 
room to have her cry out. Having accomplished this 
act to her satisfaction ; having told herself what a 


MRS. ORME. 


299 


sad thing it was to be an orphan ; having said to her- 
self that every joy had its sting, and every rose its 
thorn, and that, while she must expect an ordinary 
person like Lizzy to be jealous of her musical talents, 
it was very hard that she should be placed in her 
power, — having said all this to herself, and a great 
deal more, she began to think, which is quite a dif- 
ferent thing from talking to one’s self. She reflected 
that she would be very foolish to quarrel with Lizzy 
and her husband. Suppose Mr. Woodbury should 
say that he would not keep her any longer ; suppose 
he should complain to her father : there would be 
an end of the singing-lessons, for which she had 
longed, and on which she built so many hopes. She 
had already thrown away one chance of improve- 
ment, — that of singing with Ida Van Zandt. Would 
it not be the greatest folly to lose another ? Then 
another voice began to make itself heard, — that of 
conscience ; a voice which Selina had not succeeded 
in silencing, and had not yet learned wholly to dis- 
regard. She was an orphan, with no claim of rela- 
tionship to any human being that she knew of. She 
had never known of any home but the asylum in 
Oldbury, till Mr. and Mrs. Weston came and took 
her home to the ease and plenty of the Oldham 
farmhouse. But for them she might still be living 
in the red-brick house on Elm Street, dressing on 
week-days in pink or lilac calico, and walking to 
church on Sunday with the other children, if, indeed, 
she had not been bound out as a servant somewhere. 
She coi^d not deny, even to herself, that Mr. and 
Mrs. Weston had always treated her like a daughter, 


300 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


that there was not a girl in Oldham who had more 
pretty things or more chances for education. Mr. 
Weston had bought the piano expressly for her, for 
Lizzy was not musical, and he had given her every 
advantage that the place afforded ; while Mrs. Weston 
and Lizzy had done more than their share of the 
work, that she might have time to practise. Pursu- 
ing the subject with the obstinacy which belongs to 
that inconvenient counsellor, conscience further in- 
formed her that she had heretofore made a very inad- 
equate return for all that had been done for her, that 
she had been often ill-natured and disrespectful, often 
careless, and always jealous lest perhaps Lizzy might 
have something which she had not. She knew that 
Mrs. Weston had made a great sacrifice in letting her 
come to Oldbury in the very busiest time of the year, 
that she might have the benefit of Professor Schultz’s 
instructions before he went to New York. Mrs. 
Weston, like many notable housewives, disliked hav- 
ing hired help ; yet she had taken in Mariette Jews- 
bury to assist through harvest-time, in order that 
she, Selina, might have a nice time in Oldbury ; only 
making the condition that she should be guided by 
Lizzy in all things. What sort of a return was she 
making ? 

But Selina did not care to listen to the voice of 
conscience. She said to herself that she would be 
more cautious ; that she would not quarrel with Lizzy, 
or come across her prejudices. It was perhaps only 
natural that Lizzy should be jealous of her friend- 
ship with a superior person like Mrs. Or#ie, and- 
she must be careful not to annoy her. She would 


MRS. ORME. 


301 


go to work that very evening, and knit a pair of 
shoes for the baby, and that would make every thing 
right. She had just arrived at this conclusion when 
Lizzy called her to tea. She bathed her face and 
eyes, smoothed her hair, and went down prepared to 
be amiable. 

“ Horace and myself are going up to see mother 
Woodbury a little while,” said Lizzy, after tea. 
“ Will you go with us t Mother sent word this 
afternoon that she would like to have us come over.” 

“ I don’t think I will,” answered Selina. “ But I 
will go as far as Smith’s : I want to buy a little yarn. 
But what about baby } ” 

“Oh, Jane will look after him. She likes noth- 
ing better, you know.” Jane was the girl whom 
Mr. Woodbury, asserting his authority, had insisted 
on his wife’s keeping, — a proceeding severely com- 
mented upon by Aunt Betsy and old Miss Jewsbury 
as an extravagant and “ up-setting ” proceeding. 

“You know mother will be very glad to see you, 
Selina,” remarked Mr. Woodbury. “You are a favo- 
rite with her, and she loves to hear you sing.” 

“ She is very kind, I am sure,” said Selina. “ I will 
go some other time, but to-night I have something I 
want to do.” 

“I hope she won’t go into Mrs. Orme’s,” said 
Lizzy as they walked away. 

“ And so do I. The fact is, Lizzy, that intimacy 
must be broken up, if Selina goes home to do it. I 
don’t like the woman ; and I like still less the style 
of visitors she has, the men especially.” 

“Some of them are not nice-looking, certainly. 


302 OLDHAiM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

However, I don’t think Selina has ever been there 
when Mrs. Orme has had company. Well, we will 
think about it, and try to see our way. I rather wish 
we had not left her at home alone. However, I don’t 
believe she will go there to-night.” 

Nevertheless Selina did go to Mrs. Orme’s. She 
persuaded herself that there was something she did 
not understand in the pattern for a baby’s shoe that 
Mrs. Orme had lent her, and that it was necessary 
for her to seek information. It could do no harm to 
run in just for a minute. 

Mrs. Orme received her with open arms, and intro- 
duced her to a friend of her own from Boston, — Mr. 
Pyncheon, a member of one of the oldest Beacon- 
street families. No, she said playfully, they would 
not waste time over the stupid knitting ; Mr. Pynch- 
eon was an excellent judge of music, and he must 
hear her sing. Mr. Pyncheon seconded his hostess. 
He was a comparatively young-looking man, with 
very white hair and whiskers. He delighted Selina 
by his praise of her music. I have not heard such 
a voice since I lost my own daughter,” said he. 
“Miss Weston reminds me of her.” 

“ She is like poor Angelina,” said Mrs. Orme. “ I 
noticed it myself. Isn’t it a shame, Mr. Pyncheon, 
that such a voice should be buried in the wilds of 
Oldfield, and never heard except in the village choir 

“ It is indeed. Miss Weston ought to go to some 
of the great German schools. Even now her voice 
would be noticed in New York.” 

It is useless to repeat any more of the compliments 
by which Selina was fooled to the top of her bent. 


MRS. ORME. 


303 


She sang song after song, alone and with Mrs. Orme, 
till, warned by the striking of the clock, she returned 
just in time to meet Mr. and Mrs. Woodbury as they 
returned from their evening visit. Lizzy was greatly 
annoyed, and spoke more sharply than was at all 
common with her. 

I only went in to get a pattern Mrs. Orme prom- 
ised me,” said Selina, restraining herself by a great 
effort. “ Mrs. Orme had some new music, and kept 
me to try it. I am sorry you are vexed, Lizzy ; but 
you know I can’t break off with her all at once, when 
she has been so kind to me in lending me music, and 
so on. I won’t go there if you don’t want me to, 
though I must say I can’t see any harm in her.” 

Already sorry for her severity, Lizzy said no more ; 
and Selina, warned by what had happened, actually 
staid away from Mrs. Orme’s for three whole days. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

TROUBLE AT HOME. 

“ Where have you been all this time ? said Mrs. 
Orme to Selina, waylaying her as she came from her 
music-lesson. “ I have not had even a glimpse of 
you.” 

“ It hasn’t been my fault, Mrs. Orme,” answered 
Selina. 

“Call me Eva,” interrupted her friend: “‘Mrs. 
Orme ’ sounds so cold and formal. Why haven’t you 
been in > Mr. Pyncheon was so anxious to hear you 
sing again. I wanted you to be friends with him, 
Selina : he has neither chick nor child, and he has no 
end of money. He said, after you went out, ‘ How I 
wish that child belonged to me ! I should be so glad 
to give her a first-rate musical education.’ ” 

“ Did he .^ ” asked Selina. “ I know he said my voice 
was like his daughter’s.” 

“Yes. Poor thing, she went to the bad, — made 
a runaway match, and he never saw her afterward ; 
though he heard that she died somewhere in this 
neighborhood, and left a child. It was that brought 
him to Oldbury, — to see if he could find any trace 
of her. Just think, Selina, if you should turn out to 
304 


TROUBLE AT HOME. 305 

be Mr. Pyncheon’s grand-daughter, what a grand 
thing for you ! ” 

“ I don’t believe there is any chance of that,” said 
Selina. “ I never asked any questions ; but I always 
supposed my parents lived here, and were very poor 
people.” 

‘‘They would naturally want you to think so,” 
said Mrs. Orme reflectively, more as if she were 
addressing herself than speaking to Selina. Then, 
catching herself up, “But that might be true too. 
Poor Matilda married beneath her ; as I said, a very 
common sort of man, — her father’s coachman, in 
fact, and I dare say she might have died very poor. 
It was a terrible blow to her parents, and fairly killed 
her mother. After the first natural heat of his anger 
was over, Mr. Pyncheon made every effort to find his 
daughter, but without success. Then he went abroad, 
and has just come home. He has gone back to Boston 
now, but when he returns we will talk to him. Come 
in and spend the evening with me. I have a lot of 
new songs for you to try.” 

“ Mr. Schultz does not want me to sing any more 
songs just now,” replied Selina. “ He has given me 
a parcel of scales and exercises to practise.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Mrs. Orme. “ However, singing 
scales is very good practice. But you can come over 
and see me, all the same.” 

“ I don’t believe I can, but I will see. I must go 
now, at any rate, Mrs. Orme, — Eva, I mean : it is 
dinner-time.” 

“Barbarous hours !” said Mrs. Orme. “Well, good- 
by, dear. I will contrive to meet you somehow.” 


306 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


Selina went home as if she were treading on air, her 
imagination all on fire with the news she had heard, 
and the brilliant prospect which seemed opening 
before her. As she said, she had never asked abput 
her own parents ; being restrained by a vague feeling 
that she might hear something she would not like. 
It was pleasanter to dream of wealthy and distin- 
guished relatives coming to claim her, than to know 
for certain that her mother was a poor laundress or 
something of that sort. And now it really seemed as 
if her day-dreams were coming true. Mr. Pyncheon’s 
grand-daughter ! Pyncheon was such an aristocratic 
name, that of one of the oldest New-England fami- 
lies. It was worth while to have such an ancestry as 
that, Selina said to herself. She did not reflect that 
this grand ancestry had not kept her mother from 
running away with the coachman, who certainly could 
not be considered a very aristocratic connection ; still 
less did it occur to her to suspect, what was the fact, 
that Mrs. Orme had invented the whole story to serve 
her own purposes. Mrs. Orme had a plan with 
regard to Selina, and she was not likely to spare any 
amount of lying needful to carry it out. Selina saw 
a great deal of her for the next week. Old Mrs. 
Woodbury was ailing; and, as she had no own 
daughter, Lizzy naturally devoted as much time as 
possible to waiting upon and comforting her mother- 
in-law. Whenever she went out, Mrs. Orme popped 
in, or called Selina into her own house. As the two 
grew more intimate, Mrs. Orme was more off her 
guard ; and she did and said some things which 
certainly struck Selina as peculiar. P'or example, she 


TROUBLE AT HOME. 


307 


drank wine and beer very freely, and on several occa- 
sions there was an odor of tobacco-smoke about the 
house which Selina could not account for. Selina, 
who had been brought up on strict total-abstinence 
principles, ventured to remonstrate ; but she was met 
with a torrent of ridicule, which speedily silenced 
her. 

‘‘You poor little chicken, brought up in a coop 
among the daisies ! It is really refreshing to meet 
with such innocence. But you must put these strait- 
laced Puritanical notions out of your head before you 
come to New York, or we shall have you making a 
laughing-stock of yourself. Fancy any one talking 
like that to my friend Mrs. Robert Livingstone on 
Fifth Avenue ! Why, the wine alone at Mrs. Living- 
stone’s last lunch-party cost three hundred dollars.” 

The idea of making herself -a laughing-stock to 
an unknown Mrs. Livingstone on Fifth Avenue was 
enough to silence Selina ; but, happily for her, even 
the name of that great lady could not make her 
break her Sunday-school pledge by taking the glass 
of champagne Mrs. Orme urged upon her. 

I can’t, Eva ; I have promised not to touch it, and 
I can’t break my word.” 

“ Oh, well, if you have promised, of course that 
is all about it,” said Mrs. Orme ; adding to herself, 
“ I will drive all that nonsense out of you, my lady, 
before I have had you long.” 

But Selina was not destined to enjoy any longer 
the dangerous delights of Mrs. Orme’s society. The 
very day after the temperance lecture, Mr. Bassett 
came for her. Mr. Weston had fallen from the barn- 


308 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

loft, and broken his leg. It was a bad fracture ; he 
was perfectly helpless, and Selina must come home 
and help wait upon him. There was nothing for it but 
to go ; and, to do Selina justice, she never thought of 
any thing else till she ran in to bid Mrs. Orme good- 
by. 

“What a shame,” said that lady, “to take you 
away from your music and all, just to wait on that 
old farmer, who is not related to you ! ” 

“ I should not have had many music-lessons only 
for that old farmer, as you call him,” said Selina in- 
dignantly, her better n-ature roused for the moment. 

“Well, don’t be angry. I did not mean any dis- 
respect,” said Mrs. Orme, perceiving she had overshot 
her mark. “Of course it is very kind and self- 
sacrificing in you to go. I suppose you will be back 
before long.” 

“ I can’t tell. It will depend upon how father is. 
Good-by, Eva; I must not keep Mr. Bassett waiting.” 

“ Don’t you want something to read } ” asked Mrs. 
Orme, hastily gathering together and tying up a quan^ 
tity of paper books, with which her room was always 
strewed. 

“ I don’t believe I shall have much time to read, 
but I will take them,” replied Selina. “ Good-by, Eva, 
and thank you for all your kindness.” 

“ Good-by, dear, till I see you again. I shall write 
to you. And see here, Selina ; don’t hamper yourself 
by any more pledges and promises.' And I wouldn’t 
say any thing about Mr. Pyncheon, if I were you. 
Your friends would not like it, and might put obsta- 
cles in your way. And you must see, that, if he 


TROUBLE AT HOME. 309 

is really your grandfather, he has the best right to 
you.” 

“ Of course,” said Selina. ‘‘ I really must go, Eva. 
Good-by.” 

Selina could not restrain her tears as she took her 
seat ■ in the miller’s comfortable carriage ; and Mr. 
Bassett, respecting her grief, was silent for the first 
mile or two. By that time Selina had recovered her 
self-control, and began to ask questions. 

** Is Miss Armstrong at our house } ” 

“ Oh, yes ! Ma wanted her to come to us, and Mrs. 
Van Zandt sent for her up there ; but she left it to 
your ma, and she said Miss Armstrong made no 
trouble in the house, and was such a comfort she 
couldn’t bear to part with her.” 

“Well, I wonder she should care to stay,” said 
Selina. “ She and Mrs. Van Zandt are such great 
friends, and she would be much more comfortable up 
there.” • 

“ Miss -Armstrong isn’t the woman to be always 
thinking first of her own comfort,” replied Mr. Bas- 
sett. “ She and I together took care of your pa last 
night, and -persuaded your ma to go to bed ; and a 
better nurse I never saw. She knows where to put 
her hand every time. Symantha Mallory was down 
in the afternoon to see if there was any thing she 
could dp.” 

“I should not think mother would care to have 
her about,” said Selina. 

“Oh, well, I don’t think there is any harm in 
Symantha. Every one agrees that she took good 
care of her stepmother ; and she keeps Kit just as 


310 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

neat as a pin, though she hasn’t, much to do with, I 
fancy, for Phin isn’t going on very well. Kit comes 
to church and Sunday school regularly now ; and ma 
says she never had a better scholar, only she asks 
such queer questions. We have another new scholar, 
too, — a great friend of yours.” 

‘‘You don’t mean Milly Richmond!” exclaimed 
Selina. “ What brings her to Sunday school, of all 
people 

“ I don’t know. I’m sure, unless she wants to learn 
something. I can’t think how she has grown up to 
know so little about the Bible. Poor Kit is a good 
Bible scholar compared to her. But she behaves 
very well, I must say that for her, and seems inter- 
ested in her lessons.” 

“ I should not think Mrs. Richmond would allow 
it,” said Selina, “she is so very liberal in her views.” 

“ So liberal that she doesn’t want her daughter to 
have any opinion of her own, eh } Isn’t that a funny 
kind of liberality ? ” 

“ Perhaps so. But I have heard her say that she 
did not wish to bring up her daughters to any reli- 
gion ; when they were old enough, they could choose 
for themselves.” 

“That might do, perhaps, if trouble and death 
would only wait till people are grown up,” remarked 
Mr. Bassett. “But they don’t, as Mrs. Richmond 
ought to know by this time. Poor Cordelia is fail- 
ing fast, as Mrs. Gleason thinks; but her mother 
won’t allow it at all.” 

“I suppose Agnes was confirmed last Sunday.” 

“Yes; and her mother too, and Sarah Leet, and 


TROUBLE AT HOME, 


31I 

my Abner, and about ten more. It was a blessed 
day, I can tell you. We all wished you were there, 
Selina.” 

‘'What makes you turn up this way ?” asked Selina 
as Mr. Bassett turned his horses into a cross-road. 

“Well, it cuts off quite a piece of the distance, 
and it is good enough this time of year. It is rather 
lonesome, but we needn’t mind that as long as we 
take daylight with us.” 

“I don’t mind it: I like it,” said Selina, “the 
woods are so pretty. Do you think father will be 
laid up long } ” 

“Well, yes. I’m afraid he’ll have a tedious time. 
You see, he is getting an elderly man; and, beside 
the broken bone, it was a pretty severe shake for 
him. I hope he will get well. I’m sure ; for, beside 
the blow to his own family, he would be a dreadful 
loss to the neighborhood. But he is in the Lord’s 
hands, my girl, and there we must leave him.” 

“ How is mother ” 

“Just what she ought to be, neither more nor 
less,” said Mr. Bassett with emphasis : “never think- 
ing about herself, always doing and saying the right 
thing at the right time. I’ll tell you what, Selina, if 
you don’t turn out a good girl, you’ll have a great 
deal to answer for. Never girl had a better father 
and mother than you have, nor a pleasanter home.” 

“ Well, I hope I shall turn out a good girl,” said 
Selina. “Why should you think I won’t, Mr. Bas- 
sett } I don’t think I have been a very bad girl so 
far.” 

“ I don’t say you have, — far from it,” answered 


312 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


Mr. Bassett. “ Only, if you’ll excuse my plain speak- 
ing, Selina, I don’t think you have always appreciated 
your advantages. But then, none of us do that ; and 
perhaps it isn’t to be expected of young folks. I 
tell my boys, sometimes, I believe they think money 
grows on bushes, like blueberries.” 

“ How did Miss Van Zandt get on with the 
school } ” asked Selina, willing to turn the conversa- 
tion. 

‘^Oh, famously, — as well as Miss Armstrong her- 
self. That young lady has a genius for other things 
beside music. She knows how to teach what she 
has learned. The children think her perfection.” 

“Yes, she gets on nicely with little ones,” said 
Selina. “ She knows how to amuse them, and she is 
so childish herself she is like a companion to them.” 

“Childlike, if you choose, not childish,” replied 
the miller. “There is a difference.” 

“ I don’t see it.” 

“ Well, it seems others do. St, Paul says, when he 
became a man he put away childish things ; but our 
Lord says we must become as little children, or we 
cannot enter the kingdom of heaven. There is just 
the same difference between ‘ childish ’ and ‘ child- 
like’ as between ‘womanish’ and ‘womanly.’ ‘Wom- 
anish ’ implies all the weakness, and ‘ womanly ’ all 
the strength, of a woman. Miss Van Zandt has all 
the simple, frank, unaffected ways of a nice child. 
She never seems to think whether any one is looking 
at her or not.” 

“There it goes!” thought Selina. “I never was 
so tired of any one’s name in my life.” 


TROUBLE AT HOME. 


313 


** Isn’t there some one on the road there before 
us, Selina?” said Mr. Bassett. “I am rather short- 
sighted, and I have forgotten my glasses.” 

“Yes, two men ; one looks like Phin Mallory,” said 
Selina, bending forward to look. “Yes, it is Phin 
Mallory. There, they have turned into the woods. 
Why ! ” exclaimed Selina in a tone of great surprise, 
and then she checked herself. 

“Why, what?” 

“ I thought the man with him looked like a gen- 
tleman I saw in Oldbury; but it couldn’t be, of 
course.” 

“ Well, they won’t interfere with us,” said Mr. Bas- 
sett. They had now come to the place where the 
two men had disappeared, and discovered Phin in the 
act of lighting a cigar ; but nothing was to be seen 
of his companion. 

“Halloo, Phin! Have a ride?” said the miller, 
pulling up. 

“ No, thank’ee, Mr. Bassett ; I’m going up through 
the woods to look for a stray critter of mine. You 
didn’t see him, did you, — a red steer with a ball on 
one horn ? ” 

“ I saw him in your pasture-lot when I drove by, 
this morning.” 

“ All right, then : he has got home before me. No, 
thank’ee, I won’t ride. My cigar might annoy the 
young lady. How’s the squire ? ” 

“ Much about the same, only his head is all right 
to-day.” 

“ Tell his folks I’ll come and sit up any night. I 
used to be reckoned a good hand in sickness.” 


314 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS, 


‘‘I dare say. I’ll tell Mrs. Weston. Well, good- 
by, if you won’t ride. Take care of that cigar of 
yours in the woods, for every thing is as dry as tin- 
der. By the way, who was that you were talking 
with just before we came up } ” 

'‘Talking with.? Nobody,” replied Phin with a 
curious tremor in his voice. " Oh, yes : a tramp 
asked me the way to the village. You’ll pass him 
farther on, I dare say.” 

" Poor Phin ! he has good streaks in him, after all,” 
said Mr. Bassett as they drove on. “They say he 
was kind to his wife. And it was neighborly in him 
to offer to sit up with your pa. You might have 
thanked him, Selina.” 

“ I was thinking of something else,’^ said Selina, 
with perfect truth. It could not be possible, she 
thought, and yet certainly the man she had seen 
talking with Phin Mallory bore a very strong resem- 
blance to Mrs. Orme’s aristocratic Boston friend, 
Mr. Pyncheon. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

OLDHAM AFFAIRS. 

With the atmosphere of home, Selina’s better na- 
ture revived for a time. The sight of her father’s 
resolutely endured suffering, and of her mother’s 
pale, cheerful, patient face, brought back the old re- 
spect and affection. Then, she felt herself to be a 
person of consequence; and that was agreeable to 
her, as it is to most people. She took the whole care 
of the dairy, and most of the housekeeping, off her 
mother’s hands, and attended to it with an efficiency 
and quietness which equally pleased and surprised 
Mrs. Weston. She spoke of the matter to Miss 
Armstrong. 

“ I always thought Selina had great capabilities,” 
said Miss Armstrong. “ All she needs is, to forget 
herself ; and you see she can do so when the motive 
is strong enough. Certainly her style of doing things 
is very unlike Mariette’s. I shall never have any 
opinion of that girl again.” 

For Mariette had taken herself home at the very 
beginning of the trouble, alleging, as an excuse, that 
she never could endure to be where there was sick- 
ness, it made her feel so bad to see any one suffer. 


3*5 


3 i 6 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


“ What can you expect ? ” said Mrs. Weston. 
“Those girls have been brought up to think of noth- 
ing on earth but pleasing themselves, — having a 
good time, as they say ; and no better motive than 
self-pleasing has ever been put before them. The 
notion of duty has never entered their heads. Their 
aunt is just the same. When she was young, she 
found pleasure in finery and such dissipation as 
came within her reach. Now she finds it in the 
laudanum-bottle. I do think that a passion for dress 
and amusement is almost as ruinous to women as 
drink is to men.” 

“You might say so if you had seen what I have,” 
replied Miss Armstrong. “More girls are utterly 
destroyed by the passion for finery than from any 
other one cause.” 

Selina had begun by heartily wishing Miss Arm- 
strong away ; and she had even ventured, in her 
mother’s absence, to give some broad hints that she 
thought Miss Armstrong would be much more com- 
fortable somewhere else, and, in fact, that her room 
would be better than her company. But Miss Arm- 
strong paid no attenton to these hints. She knew 
that her presence in the house added nothing to the 
work, and was a comfort to Mr. and Mrs. Weston, 
for whom she had conceived a very earnest friend- 
ship. She was very careful not to interfere with 
Selina in any way, and to lighten her labors when- 
ever it was possible; and by degrees Selina became 
reconciled to her presence, and even admitted to 
herself that Miss Armstrong was a great help in the 
sick-room. She had been at home more than a week. 


OLDHAM AFFAIRS, 


317 


and Mr. Weston had been pronounced out of danger, 
when Mrs. Weston called Selina into the dairy, or 
milk-room as they call it in those parts. 

Daughter, suppose you take a pitcher of this nice 
buttermilk up to Cordelia Richmond,” said she. 
‘‘Mrs. Gleason was telling me yesterday that it is 
almost the only thing the poor child fancies. It will 
be a nice walk for you, and you can stay and have a 
visit with the girls.” . 

“Well, I will,” answered Selina. “I have not 
seen Milly since I came home. And I will come 
round by the post-office, and get the mail. , What do 
you think of my churning, mother.?” 

“ It is beautiful,” answered her mother. “ I don’t 
see but I may give up the care of the milk to you 
altogether, Selina; you manage every thing as well 
as I could, myself. But you must let Jerry lift the 
pails for you. God bless you, my child ! You are a 
great comfort to us.” 

Selina took up her jug of buttermilk, and went on 
her way, well satisfied with herself and with all the 
world. She found Milly and Agnes sitting together 
on the porch, their heads closely bent over a large 
book which they held between them, and their atten- 
tion so absorbed that they did not hear her till she 
spoke to them. 

“ What- in the world are you so busy with .? ” asked 
Selina. “You started, when I spoke, as if you had 
been shot.” 

“ Studying in my grandfather’s old ‘ Matthew 
Henry,’ ” answered Agnes, cld^ing the volume, and 
laying it aside. 


3 i 8 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

‘‘That is something new for you, Milly. You did 
not use to care much about the Bible.” 

“No,” answered Milly with none of the embar- 
rassment which Selina had expected, and perhaps 
had hoped to see. “ One doesn’t care for things that 
one knows nothing about ; but I am beginning to find 
out that it is worth reading as a story-book, if for noth- 
ing more. What have you in that pretty old blue- 
and-white pitcher } If mother sees it, you will hardly 
get it back. She has a mania for blue-and-white.” 

“It is a very old pitcher, but I never supposed 
there was any thing precious about it,” replied Se- 
lina. “ It is only earthenware, not china.” 

Onfy earthenware! Just hear her! Lovely old 
Liverpool blue, and an American piece at that. Do 
let me look at it. See, Agnes, here is the State-house 
on one side, and — let me see what — actually Fan- 
euil Hall on the other.” 

“ Don’t spill Cordelia’s buttermilk in your admira- 
tion of the pitcher. It is just churned, and mpther 
thought she might like it. How is she ? ” 

“ I don’t see that she is a bit better, though mother 
thinks so,” answered Milly sadly. “ I think she fails 
all the time. She likes the buttermilk, and it seems 
to suit her. I am ever so much obliged, Selina.” 

“ I am sure you are very welcome. I wish I could 
do more than that for her, poor thing.” 

“ There is one thing I wish you or some one would 
do for her,” said Milly as Agnes carried away the 
blue jug to dispose of its contents, “and that is, to 
persuade mother to let Cordelia see a minister. The 
poor child wants it so much! ” 


OLDHAM AFFAIRS. 


319 


Why, won’t your mother allow it ? ” asked Selina. 

“No, she won’t hear of it.* She would not see 
Mr. Brace herself when he called. I was in hopes 
Dr. Madison would come, but he has gone back to 
New York. I think perhaps mother would have seen 
him for the fashion of the thing.” 

“ Miss Armstrong told me she called to see Cor- 
delia, but your mother said she was not fit to receive 
company.” 

“ I believe it was for the same reason. She is so 
afraid some one will say a word to Cordelia about dy- 
ing. She won’t let Agnes, or even Mrs. Gleason, stay 
with her. I read the Bible to her, and she likes it ; 
but of course there is a great deal I can’t explain.” 

“Is she afraid of dying .^” 

“Not always. She said to-day, if she could know 
her sins were forgiven, she should be happy ; but she 
does not see how she can be sure, so Agnes and I 
were looking out the texts about it. I’m sure I 
should like to comfort her if I could, poor thing. Do 
sit down a little, Selina. I have hardly seen you 
since you came home, and I want to hear what kind 
of time you had in Oldbury.” 

“ Here is your pitcher, Selina. But you will have 
to excuse me,” said Agnes, re-appearing : “ my bread 
has come up so suddenly that I must mould it up 
directly, or it will be running over.” 

“ Why, where is your mother } ” 

“ She has gone up to see Patience Fletcher, who is 
sick in bed.” 

* I wish this were an exaggeration ; but it is a literal fact, occurring witliin 
my own knowledge. 


320 OLDHAM ; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Is she ? What is the matter ? ” 

“Only overwork, the doctor says. You know she 
always would do every thing herself, — never would 
let Faith or any one help her, for fear they would not 
set all the teacups with the handles the same way ; 
so now she can’t set them up at all. Martha Jane 
Kettle is staying there to help, and she told me she 
wouldn’t mind the work a bit if only Patience wouldn’t 
fret so.” 

“ Does she suffer so much ? ” 

“ Oh, it isn’t that. She bears her pain like a mar- 
tyr; but she is so afraid Martha Jane won’t do every 
thing just in her way, though she is as neat as wax, 
and a splendid cook. Martha Jane said to her one 
day, ‘ See here. Miss Patience, if you was in heaven, 
do you think you would be worrying about the work 
all the time.^’ And Patience said. No, she supposed 
not. ‘Well, then,’ says Martha Jane, ‘try to think 
you are in heaven, and leave me and Faith to man- 
age the things on earth.’ But there, I must go ; my 
bread will be walking about the floor. Stay to tea, 
Selina, and see what nice rolls I’ll have for you.” 

“ So you are really going to Sunday school, Milly,” 
said Selina when they were left alone. 

“I really am ; and, what is more, I like it.” 

“ Whose class are you in ? ” 

“Miss Celia Claxton’s, only old Mrs. Van Zandt 
has it now.” 

“Oh,” said Selina, as who should say, “Now I 
understand.” Milly colored. 

“Yes, that was it exactly, to begin with,” said she 
frankly : “ I did want to be acquainted with the Van 


OLDHAM AFFAIRS. 


321 


Zandts, and I thought it would be a good way to 
bring it about. So, when I heard that Miss Celia 
had gone to Elmfield for a month or so, and Mrs. 
Van Zandt had taken the class, I told Agnes I would 
go with her.” 

“ A fine motive for going to Sunday school, I must 
say,” said Selina sarcastically. 

“Wasn’t it ? Well, that was the beginning; but I 
got interested in spite of myself. Madam Van Zandt 
makes every thing so real ; and she was very kind to 
me, and made me feel so mean — that wasn’t nice, a 
bit, I can tell you. So, one day when she walked 
home, I walked with her ; and then I just told her all 
about it.” 

“Amelia Richmond! you didn’t.” 

“I did, then, just as I am telling you.” 

“ What did she say ? ” 

“I can’t tell you all, only she was just as good 
as she could be, and didn’t despise me as I was afraid 
she would. She talked about the danger of loving 
the world, and how little it was worth, after all.” 

“Yes, it is very well for her to say so, when she 
has every thing that money can buy,” interrupted 
Selina. 

“ But think how many things money can’t buy, 
Selina. It can’t give her back all the children she 
has lost. Just think! nine children she has had, and 
not one left. All the money in the world won’t make 
Cordelia well again. Well, I can’t tell you all she 
said, but she asked me to keep on coming; and I 
have, because I like it, as I said. And, after all, 
Selina, if religion is any thing, as Agnes says, it must 
be every thing.” 


322 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

“ What does your mother say ? 

“ I don’t think she likes it very well ; but it is Mrs. 
Van Zandt, so she won’t say I shall not go.” 

“ And do you really mean to be a Christian out and 
out.?” 

“That is just the point. You see, if I do, I am 
afraid I shall have to give up a great many things 
that I should like to keep. To be sure, I know a 
great many church-members who are just as gay as 
those who are not ; but I could not be like that. It 
would be all or nothing, with me. But now tell me 
about yourself. Did you have a nice time.? Your 
mother said you had made a great friend of some’ 
New-York lady. Who was she .? ” 

Selina poured out the story of her intimacy with 
Mrs. Orme. Milly listened seriously ; but, when Se- 
lina came to the story of Mrs. Robert Livingstone’s 
lunch-party, she broke out, — 

“Nonsense, Selina! The Robert Livingstones are 
the most strait-laced temperance people in the world, 
and never give wine at all. Mrs. Livingstone gives 
beautiful lunch-parties, — or so I have heard, for of 
course I never went to one : she is a long way above 
our mark, — but every one knows how they feel about 
wine.” 

“Perhaps it was some other Mrs. Robert Living- 
stone,” said Selina. “Mrs. Orme said they lived on 
the corner of Fifth Avenue and Nth Street.” 

“ It is the very same, but I don’t believe she ever 
visited them. She has been humbugging you,” said 
Milly with her usual bluntness. “ Did she bring any 
letters of introduction, or any such thing .? ” 


OLDHAM AFFAIRS. 


323 


‘*Not that I ever heard of. The ladies in Oldbury 
don’t like her, and don’t visit her much ; but she has 
a good deal of company, — gentlemen friends from 
New York.” 

“ And she has asked you to spend the winter with 
her .? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; and she says she will give me every advan- 
tage of lessons from the best masters, and introduce 
me to all her friends in society.” 

“Well, Selina,” said Milly seriously, “if you will 
take my advice, you will let this Mrs. Orme alone ; at 
least, till you know something more about her. I 
must say I don’t think it very nice for her to try to 
get you to leave Mr. and Mrs. Weston for her. And, 
as to society, you had better know what kind of so- 
ciety she keeps. She may be the mistress of a beer- 
garden, for aught you know.” 

An uncomfortable remembrance of Mr, Schultz’s 
remarks upon Mrs. Orme’s singing returned to Se- 
lina’s mind, and kept her silent. In truth, since she 
had been away from Mrs. Orme’s personal influence, 
a good many things in that lady’s conduct and con- 
versation had come back to her in a new light, espe- 
cially when she compared her with Miss Armstrong 
and the Van Zandts. The dreams of life in New 
York as Mrs. Orme’s guest, or in Boston as Mr. 
Pyncheon’s grand-daughter, had been too agreeable 
to be at once relinquished ; but they had been of late 
gradually fading away in the clear, bright light of her 
refined Christian home. 

Certain misgivings had arisen in her mind as to 
the gentlemen she had met at Mrs. Orme’s, and the 


324 OLDHAM; ORy BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

way in which Mrs. Orme treated them and was treat- 
ed by them. Milly’s plain-spoken remarks chimed in 
with these same misgivings, and irritated her accord- 
ingly. 

“ You have taken up the true Oldham cant, Milly,” 
said she : I don’t know her, therefore she must be 
bad.’ ” 

‘ I don’t know her, therefore I won’t be intimate 
with her,’ would be a better way of putting it,” 
answered Milly, not in the least ruffled. “ But, 
Selina, I don’t think your father and mother would 
let you go ; at least, till they know more about this 
Mrs. Orme. Have you said any thing about it to 
them } ” 

“ No, of course not. It would be a nice time to 
talk about it now, wouldn’t it. ^ What do you take 
me for ? ” 

‘‘For a goose,” was Milly’s inward reply, but she 
did not utter it. She was silent a moment, and then 
turned the conversation into another channel by in- 
quiring about Selina’s musical studies. The seed 
which Mrs. Van Zandt had sowed in Milly’s heart had 
already brought forth fruit in the shape of some 
consideration for the feelings of other people. 

“ I must go, Milly,” said Selina, starting as the 
clock struck five. I have to go to the village on 
my way home.” 

“ I wish you could stay to tea.” 

‘‘ I wish so too ; but, you see, I have the care of 
the dairy now. Come and see me.” 

“ I will. I would walk part of the way with you, 
but Cordelia is sure to ask for me the minute she 


OLDHAM AFFAIRS. 


325 


wakes. She has taken a great liking to me, poor 
thing ; I’m sure I don’t know why, for I have never 
been very kind to her.” 

Selina was not very sorry to be left to a solitary 
walk. She had been vexed at Milly’s remarks about 
Mrs. Orme, and, as I have already said, all the more 
because they chimed in with her own misgivings. 

“ But I don’t care, I will believe in her anyhow,” 
she said to herself. “ Milly says that the Living- 
stones are above their mark, and I dare say Eva 
knows more about them than she does. I do hope I 
shall have a letter from her ! ” 

Selina’s hope was destined to fulfilment. She 
found a long letter from Mrs. Orme, written on the 
most elegant perfumed paper, in the most fashion- 
able of hands, — so very scratchy and sharp-pointed, 
indeed, as to be almost illegible. She took the short 
way home, which led through a somewhat deep and 
shady ravine by the side of the river. Once in the 
shadow of the woods, she walked along reading her 
letter. It was full of protestations of affection. Mrs. 
Orme told how she missed her young friend, and 
how she longed for the time when she should have 
that same young friend all to herself. '‘Of course 
you cannot leave Mr. and Mrs. Weston, as things are 
at present,” she wrote ; " but it is absurd to think of 
your being bound to them forever. The idea of a 
girl of your sort being bound an apprentice! The 
very idea is degrading ; and your own self-respect, 
if nothing else, ought to make you throw off such a 
yoke, laid upon you without your own consent. To 
think of my noble, beautiful Selina apprenticed like 


326 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

a boy from the workhouse put out to learn a trade ! ” 
There was much more to the same effect in Mrs. 
Orme’s letter, which filled no less than three sheets 
of paper. 

Selina had always known that she had been legally 
bound to Mr. Weston at the time of her adoption, 
— a precaution usually very advisable in such cases. 
It had never occurred to her to think of this bind- 
ing as any degradation, or as any thing more than a 
legal form, always observed when a child was put out 
from the Oldbury asylum. Now, as she read Mrs. 
Orme’s letter, her cheeks flamed ; and she clenched 
her hands, and stamped her foot, in shame and anger. 

“ I am a slave, — that is the truth. Mother scolds 
me for calling myself a hired girl, but it seems I am 
not even that. But I won’t endure it : I will never 
be a slave, never ! I wonder why Eva does not say 
a word about Mr. Pyncheon.” 

As she spoke, Selina came to where the path made 
a sudden turn round a projecting angle of the rocky 
bank. As she did so she started violently ; for she 
stood face to face with a man, and that man was 
■^r. Pyncheon himself. For a moment he seemed as 
startled as herself; then he recovered his presence 
of mind. 

“ My dear Miss — I beg pardon, I have forgotten 
the name ; but I am sure I met you in Oldbury.” 

“ Miss Weston,” said Selina ; feeling, as she spoke, 
a pang of mortification that Mr. Pyncheon should 
have forgotten her already. “Have you seen Mrs. 
Orme lately? I have just received a letter from 
her.” 


OLDHAM AFFAIRS. 


327 


Mrs. Orme ? Oh, yes, our friend in Oldbury,” said 
Mr. Pyncheon, recovering his usual ease, not to say 
freedom, of manner. *‘That was where I met you. 
No, I have not seen her in some time. Did you say 
you had a letter from her.^ I hope she is well.” 

“She is very well,” answered Selina. “I wonder 
she did not tell me you had returned. Are you stay- 
ing at Oldbury ? ” 

“No — yes, for a day or two. I drove over with 
a friend who will be waiting for me, so I must ask 
you to excuse me. Perhaps we shall meet again at 
Mrs. Orme’s. Good-afternoon.” 

He held out his hand ; and Selina, though deeply 
mortified, could not refuse it. At that moment Kit 
Mallory came down the path singing as- usual. The 
moment she caught sight of Mr. Pyncheon and 
Selina, she stopped short an instant, as if petrified ; 
then, turning, she fled up the path, as if pursued by 
a wolf. 

“ Who is that child ” asked Mr. Pyncheon, look- 
ing after her with an expression which seemed to 
Selina equally compounded of fear and anger. 

“Her name is Kit Mallory. She is a kind of.> 
adopted child of a family who live up on the hill. 
You can see the end of the house a little farther on. 
Do you know them ” she could not help asking, 
remembering what she had seen or fancied on the 
cross-road. 

“Mallory.^ no. In fact, I don’t know anybody 
about here. Good-evening, Miss Wilson.” And, 
turning round the rock, he was out of sight so quickly 
that Selina could not help thinking he must have 


328 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


climbed the bank and hidden himself among the 
bushes. Thoroughly confused by this strange inter- 
view, she walked hastily homeward, till, just where 
the path came out into the open field, she found Kit 
evidently waiting for her. 

Selina,” said Kit, speaking under her breath, 
and looking around her, “you must not talk to that 
man : he is a very wicked, bad man.” 

“ Nonsense, you little goose ! He is a gentleman 
from Boston whom I met in Oldbury. His name is 
Pyncheon.” 

Kit shook her head. “ He is no more Mr. Pyn- 
cheon from Boston than you are. / know him, if he 
changes his hair a dozen times a day. He is a bad, 
wicked man ; and if you talk to him you will be 
sorry.” 

“Nonsense ! ” said Selina again, “ You are a very 
silly little girl, and very impertinent besides, to say 
such things about a gentleman. Don’t you think my 
friend Mrs. Orme knows him t ” 

Kit shook her head, but said no more. She had 
apparently discharged her conscience ; and, bidding 
Selina good-night, she turned again toward the vil- 
lage, — not by the ravine this time, but by the high 
road, — and Selina saw her look behind her more 
than once, as if fearing pursuit. 

Selina took her own way homeward, a good deal 
mortified and still more puzzled by the conduct of 
her late acquaintance. Certainly his recognition of 
her, such as it was, had not been flattering. He had 
seemed in a great hurry to get away ; and, if Kit had 
been scared at the sight of Mr. Pyncheon, Selina 


OLDHAM AFFAIRS. 


329 


could not get rid of the idea that Mr. Pyncheon had 
been equally scared at her. In short, she could not 
tell what to make of it ; and, between the meeting 
and Mrs. Orme’s letter, she returned home in any 
thing but a comfortable frame of mind. 


CHAPTER XX. 

WARNING. 

Kit did her errands at the village store, gathered 
her parcels together, and, not without fear and trem- 
bling, prepared to set out on her homeward walk. 
At the door she found Abner Bassett with his 
father’s team and wagon. 

“ Halloo, Kitty ! Want a ride home ? ” was his 
cheery greeting. The offer of a ride was an ordinary 
civility ; and Kit was a great favorite with the family 
at the mill, from Ma Bassett down to the latest baby. 
Kit gratefully accepted the offer, and climbed into 
the rattling lumber-wagon with as much pleasure as 
if it had been the finest coach in the land. 

“ I have to go round by Aunt Betsy’s to take home 
her molasses-jug, so I can set you down right at 
your own gate,” said Abner as he took his seat, and 
started up his horses. ‘‘Well, and how are you get- 
ting on at your house > Your uncle doesn’t come to 
Bible class any more ? ” 

“No,” said Kit sadly, “I can’t coax him to come ; 
but he lets me go, and he doesn’t say a word against 
my going to Sunday school. Last Sunday he took 
330 


WARNING. 


331 


my library-book, and read it all through. That was 
nice, wasn’t it ” 

“Very,” said Abner encouragingly. “I’ll tell you 
what, Kitty : next Sunday I’ll pick out a real inter- 
esting book, and you shall take it home to him.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! Perhaps he will come after a 
while, if he likes the books.” 

“Perhaps so. You love your uncle, don’t you, 
Kitty .? ” 

“Yes, I do,” said Kit with emphasis. “Uncle Phin 
is always good to me when he doesn’t drink, and he 
was always good to poor aunt Martha. It seems to 
me sometimes as if he was two men ; and one man 
wanted to be good, and the other wouldn’t let him. 
I don’t know as you understand what I mean.” 

“ Yes, I do : I’ve felt that way myself a good many 
times.” 

“ Well, I can’t help hoping that the good man will 
get the best of it some time,” said Kit. 

“We will all hope so,” returned Abner. “Here 
we are at Aunt Betsy’s, and here she is looking out 
for us. Now she will have something nice and pleas- 
ant to say. Can you hold the lines while I get out 
the parcels } ” 

“ Oh, yes : I am never afraid of horses,” replied 
Kit. “ When we lived in the Indian country I used 
to ride the ponies bare-backed.” 

“ Good for you ! I’ll give you a ride on my black 
colt some day. — Halloo, Aunt Betsy ! Here’s your 
shopping.” 

Aunt Betsy appeared at the door, candle in hand. 
“Dear me, Abner! you needn’t holler so. I never 


332 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


did see such boys for yelling in all my born days. 
Did you get the coffee } Seems to me it feels dread- 
ful light for half a pound. Where’s the molasses } 
Now, you didn’t go and forget that molasses-jug, 
Abner Bassett } There never was any thing like 
boys.” 

“Hold on. Aunt Betsy. The jug is in the wagon 
all safe. Here it is, you see ; and here is some ham, 
or something, Mrs. Andrews sent you.” 

“ Why couldn’t you say so, then ? ” snapped Aunt 
Betsy. “Ham, is it.^ Just like Harriet Anne An- 
drews. Why couldn’t she send me some fresh 
meat } ” 

“ On the whole, I believe it is beefsteak, and not 
ham. Aunt Betsy.” 

“There is a slice of ham in with the beef,” ob- 
served Kit from her perch in the wagon. 

“Yes, I dare say you looked at it. What business 
had you a-peeping and a-swooping into my parcels. 
Kit Mallory .? ” 

“ I didn’t look into it,” answered Kit indignantly. 
“ I was in the kichen, and saw Mrs. Andrews do it 
up. She told me last Sunday she would give me 
some nice papers if I would come after them, so I 
did ; and I had to wait a little, because she said she 
was just doing up some things for Aunt Betsy Burr.” 

“Yes, that’s a likely story; not but that it would 
be just like Harriet Anne Andrews to tell everybody 
what she was doing. —Well, there, I guess you’ve 
got every thing, for once. You can tell your ma, if 
she has got more plums than she wants, I should like 
a few to make sauce of.” 


WARNING, 


333 


**Aunt Betsy is rather worse than usual,” said 
Abner as he drove away. 

“ What does make her so cross ? ” asked Kit. Is 
it because she has had so much trouble ? ” 

“ She has never had any great trouble that I know 
of,” replied Abner. “Her husband. Uncle Jonathan, 
was one of the best and kindest men that ever lived, 
and always waited on her like a slave ; but he was 
not one of the kind that make money, and that 
vexed her. I do think she fairly worried the old man 
into his grave. Since then all the neighbors have 
looked after her and done for her; but she is never 
satisfied, and never would be, whatever they did.” 

“ I often think she must be lonesome living by 
herself so.” 

“ Well, that is her fault too. Lucinda Jane Pea- 
body went to stay with her; but, after she had tried 
it a month, she told ma she would rather go and 
keep house for old Kettle on Indian Hill than stay 
with Mrs. Burr. And I am sure I would,” concluded 
Abner. “The old Indian is good-natured, at any 
rate. Well, here we are, Kitty. Have you got all 
your papers 1 Good-night, and thank you for your 
company.” 

Kit had been in some measure diverted by Abner’s 
chat and Aunt Betsy’s scolding ; but, as she climbed 
the somewhat long and steep ascent from the bars 
to the house, her fears returned upon her with double 
force ; and it was with a very anxious and troubled 
face that she sought out Symantha, whom she found 
taking care of the milk. 

“Well, Kit, did you have a nice walk, and get 


334 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

your papers? Why, what ails you, child? You 
look as if you had seen a ghost.” 

“ I have seen something worse,” answered Kit in 
d low tone. “ Symantha, what do you think ! I have 
seen Gale again, and he was talking to Selina 
Weston.” 

‘‘ Are you sure ? ” asked Symantha. 

‘‘Just as sure as that I see you. I went down 
the brook-path ; and, when I came round the corner, 
there he stood talking with Selina. I saw him shake 
hands with her.” 

“ Impossible! ” 

“Yes, he was. He has got wh’ite hair and whisk- 
ers ; but I should know him by his eyes and the 
shape of his face if he were to paint his face black.” 

“ What did you do ? ” 

“I turned and ran till I came to the road; and 
then I waited for Selina, and told her who he was.” 

“ And what did she say ? ” 

“ She called me silly and impertinent, and said he 
was a gentleman from Boston that she had met in 
Oldbury. But I knew him well enough ; and, what 
is more, I believe he knew me.” 

“ I hope not,” said Symantha, evidently much 
discomposed. “I do wish I knew what was going 
on I believe that man is making a tool of father, 
and drawing him into some scrape.” 

“ Then you believe it was Gale ? ” 

“Yes, Kit, I do, because I think I saw him myself 
down in our woods the day the steer was lost, — the 
day Selina Weston came home. He was dressed 
very smart, and had white hair, as you say ; but I 


WARNING. 


335 


thought of Gale in a moment. More than that, 
I believe some one has slept in the barn chamber 
more than once, and that father has carried provis- 
ions to him. What can he be about ” 

Kit thought a moment ; and then she drew Syman- 
tha into a little room which opened from the pantry, 
and shut the door. 

“ Symantha,” she whispered, “ I don’t know what 
you will say ; but do you suppose they can be plan- 
ning to rob Mrs. Van Zandt ” 

Symantha dropped on a seat, her face as white as 
her apron. 

Kit, what do you mean ? What makes you think 

SO i 

‘‘Well, a good many things. It is the only house 
round here that would be worth the risk, for one 
thing. And there is another reason. You know 
uncle Phin would not let me go near Mrs. Van 
Zandt’s for ever so long. He did not like it because 
I went to the flower party ; and he would not let me 
go again, though Miss Van Zandt asked me, and 
offered to teach me to make lace. Then all at once 
he turned round, and wanted me to go.” Kit sank 
her voice still lower. “ And ever since I began, he 
has asked me such queer questions when I am alone 
with him.” 

“ What sort of questions ? ” 

“Well, about the silver, — how much they used, 
and where they kept it. And yesterday, when I was 
helping him pick the harvest apples, he asked me if 
I had ever been in the ladies’ rooms, and where they 
kept their jewels.” 


33 $. OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** And what did you tell him ? ” 

“ I told him I didn’t know any thing about it, and 
that I had never been in any of the up-stairs rooms 
only Miss Bogardus’s when she was teaching me the 
lace stitches ; and I didn’t believe they had any 
jewels with them only the diamond ear-rings Madam 
Van Zandt always wears. And then he muttered 
that he knew better, and that folks ought to have 
more sense than to bring such things to lonely coun- 
try houses. And it is lonesome,” added Kit. “ The 
house stands so far back from the road, with no other 
anywhere nearer than this, except Miss Claxton’s ; 
and I don’t know what good they could do. You 
dont think uncle Phin would be led away to do such 
a thing as that ? ” 

Symantha pressed her hands hard together. 

“ I don’t know. Kit. If he were left to himself he 
would cut his- hand off before he would do any thing 
to injure Mrs. Van Zandt. But he is in this man’s 
power,. — at least he thinks so, — and there is no 
telling — Hush! there he is.” 

And at that moment Phin’s voice was heard, calling 
harshly, '‘Here, Symantha, Kit, where are you all.?” 

“ Don’t say a word, for your life,” whispered Sy- 
mantha ; then aloud, “ Here I am, pa. What is it .?” 

“Where’s Kit.? I want her. — See here. Kit, what 
do you mean by hanging round Andrews’s store, and 
being out after dark .? ” 

“I was not out after dark, uncle Phin,” answered 
Kit.. “ I have been home this half-hour. I went to 
get some papers Mrs. Andrews promised me, and I 
caught a ride with Abner Bassett.” 


WARNING. 


•^37 

“ Yes, I know you did ; and a nice figure you made, 
perched up on his wagon-seat. I won’t have you 
riding round with young fellows in that way. Do 
you hear me, or not } ” 

Kit could not well help hearing, for Phin spoke very 
loud ; and, hard as his language was. Kit could not 
help thinking that his anger was assumed. She 
answered quite meekly, — 

“ I am sorry, uncle Phin. I didn’t mean any thing 
wrong,” 

“ Oh, no, you never mean any thing wrong,” 
returned Phin in the same loud, harsh tone ; and, 
glancing toward the window as he spoke, “you go 
to bed, and stay there, — that’s what I want of you. 
Go this minute,” as Kit cast a glance toward her 
papers. He paused a moment, and then added, with 
a curious irresolution in his tone and manner, “ There, 
you can take your books and a light, if you like ; but 
go up stairs, and stay there. — Symantha, I want you 
to take a light, and look up in the back chamber for 
the bottla of horse-liniment. I know I put it up 
there somewhere, but I can’t find it.” 

“ Here’s the bottle on the shelf by the clock, uncle 
Phin,” said Kit, taking it down as she spoke. Phin 
snatched it from her, and set it back with such a 
trembling hand that he dropped it, and it broke to 
pieces on the hearth. 

“There! see what you made me do. That is not 
what I want. It is a large green bottle with a 
wooden stopper. I know I put it up in the back 
room. Kit, why don’t you go to your room, as I told 
you ? ” 


338 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

‘‘ I am going, uncle Phin,” said Kit, gathering her 
papers together. “And Fll tell you what I am going 
to do when I get there : I am going to kneel down, 
and ask God to keep you away from wicked men who 
want you to do wicked things.” Then, coming close 
to her uncle, she threw her arms round his neck, and 
whispered in his ear, — 

“ Uncle Phin, don’t ; please don’t. Just think what 
aunt Martha would say if she knew. And God loves 
you more than she did, — I know He does. O uncle 
Phin, don’t ! ” 

“Don’t what.? Don’t be a fool,” said Phin. 
“ There, I am not angry with you, child,” he added 
with the same curious irresolution in his tone, un- 
clasping, but not ungently, the arms which clung 
round his neck. “ Go to bed, like a good girl, and 
pray as much as you like. You sit up too late, and 
that is what makes you so thin. — Symantha, are you 
going to find that bottle .? or do you want the colt to 
die before I get it .? ” 

“ I don’t think I can, father,” said Symantha, who 
had dropped on the nearest chair. “ I have had one 
of my headaches all day, and I am so dizzy just now 
I can hardly stand. I was going to ask you to help 
me up stairs.” 

She tried to rise as she spoke, but nearly fell to 
the floor. Phin caught her in his arms. “ I’ll carry 
you up,” said he. “ Come, Kit : you hold the light, 
and then go to bed yourself.” 

Phin laid his daughter on the bed, and kissed her 
tenderly enough. 

“There, Kit will help you to get settled,” said 


WARNING. 


339 


he. “You will be better when you have had a good 
rest.” 

As soon as Symantha had dismissed Kit, she rose, 
and, though blind and giddy with pain, she crept to 
the other side of the house, where a small window 
looked toward the barn. She had waited only a few 
minutes when she saw her father leave the house 
with a basket ; and presently she saw, or thought she 
saw, a gleam of light from the loft. Yes, there it 
was again ; and then she saw it, but only for a mo- 
ment, from the window of the little bedroom over the 
stable, which Kit had used all summer for a play- 
room. Phin had lately taken possession of this 
room for a harness-room, as he said, and had fitted it 
with a stout lock and key. Symantha sighed deeply, 
and even groaned. She was like one who sees a friend 
in horrible peril, and is unable to lift a finger to save 
him.- She knew there was no use in talking. Like 
other weak people, Phin had an abundant fund of 
obstinacy, and was excessively jealous of being gov- 
erned. Such people are sometimes said to be easily 
led ; and so they are in some directions, as a stone is 
easily started down hill. But try to roll your stone 
up hill, and you will find that a very different matter. 
Symantha had wondered at her father for taking 
Kit’s remonstrance so quietly ; but then, he had been 
exceedingly kind and indulgent to the child ever 
since his wife died, even going so far as to attend the 
schoolhouse meetings with her two or three times, 
where he had been made very welcome. But all the 
good in the universe is of no use to a man so long as 
it is outside of him, as the wise old German has it. 


340 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Phin’s feelings had been touched, and his natural 
musical taste pleased by the singing; but his will 
remained the same. He had made a solemn promise 
to his dying wife, which at the time he fully meant 
to perform ; but he was waiting from day to day, “ till 
things should be different,” he said. Meantime Satan 
was not idle, but was working by one of his most 
active agents, now awaiting Phin in the barn cham- 
ber. 

“Well, here you are at last,” was the salutation 
Phin received as he entered the room. “ I thought 
you were never coming. What kept you ? ” 

“ Well, I had to get the women-folks out of the 
way.” 

“ Bother the women ! Why don’t you send them 
adrift ? That young one will bring you into trouble 
yet. I believe she knew me this afternoon.” 

“Nonsense! How could she know you.? She has 
not seen you since she was a baby. But say, Harry, 
I wish you would give this thing up.” 

“Why.?” 

“Oh, because. I have a feeling that harm will 
come of it ; and, besides, the old lady was kind to my 
poor wife.” 

Gale poured out a flood of abuse upon cowards and 
soft-heads who did not know their own minds ; end- 
ing with, “ But I’ll tell you what, Phin : if you play 
me false. I’ll have your life, just as sure as you live. 
I have planned to do this thing, and I am going to 
carry it through ; and you are going to help me, or 
you are not going to see sunrise to-morrow.” 

“ Who said any thing about playing false .? ” asked 


WAUNmC. 


341 


Phin sulkily. You do well to bully me, don’t you ? 
Where would you be this minute but for me.? ” 

“I know, and I don’t forget it; but I won’t be 
played fast and loose with.” 

And, as to playing false, you had better look out 
for somebody besides me,” continued Phin. ‘‘ Much 
need to talk to me, when you put your head in that 
woman’s pocket.” 

‘‘What, Sally.? She’s as true as steel. You ought 
to see her playing the fine lady there in Oldbury. 
Well, there, go and get a nap, and I’ll do the same ; 
but keep one eye open, and call me at one : and re- 
member, no fooling ! ” 

Phin crept back to the house ashamed, enraged, 
wretched as a man could be ; feeling himself a slave, 
and lacking courage to make a stroke for freedom. 
A French writer has said, that, to reap any benefit 
from sin, a man must be altogether wicked ; and Phin 
was not that. His conscience, though blunted, was 
not dead. Since he had lived in Oldham a good many 
things had happened to bring to mind the teachings 
of that Christian mother and sister whose ,^memory 
he still revered. He had more than half made up his 
mind to give up all his old courses, and betake him- 
self to a decent, sober life. But then the tempter 
had come in his way, — the man who, as he believed, 
had him in his power, — and the weak will had yielded 
to the strong one. He had been led into more than 
one piece of wickedness in his absences from home. 
Now came the crowning atrocity, for so he felt it. 
He was being made a tool of to rob, perhaps murder, 
the woman who had been a mother to his wife. To 


342 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

be sure, Gale had promised that there should, be no 
violence ; but what was his word worth ? The fright 
alone was enough to kill such an old lady. There 
was not a man about the place, he knew, for the 
coachman had gone to Oldtown to meet some friends 
of Mrs. Van* Zandt’s who were coming by the early 
morning train. Nobody was there but three or four 
weak women. Phin flung himself down in the rock- 
ing-chair, — his wife’s chair, — and groaned almost 
aloud. “Talk of going to sleep ! ” he said to himself. 
“You might as' well tell a man to go to sleep when 
the Indians were pouring hot coals on his head.” 
The clock struck nine — ten — eleven. How dread- 
fully fast the hours were going on ! It would soon 
be time to call Gale. 

Suddenly a thought flashed across him. What 
if he should send them warning If they were all 
awake and up, and the house lighted, surely Gale 
would never dare go near it. 

Nothing is so dear to a weak mind as a compro- 
mise. • Phin rose to his Yeet in an instant, found his 
way sof^ up the stairs in the dark, and opened Kit’s 
door. He dared not strike a light, lest a ray should 
betray him ; hut it was a starlight night, and the 
large window was wholly uncovered, so that his eyes, 
. accustomed to the darkness, saw the bed and its oc- 
cupant. As he bent over, and laid his hand on her 
arm. Kit, who was always a light sleeper, started up 
broad awake on the instant. 

“Uncle Phin, what is it 

“ Hush ! ” said Phin sharply. “ Kit, listen. Are 
you afraid to run up to Mrs. Van Zandt’s } You can 


WARArmc. 


343 


go along by the trees, and nobody will see you. Are 
you afraid to go — to save Mrs. Van Zandt and the 
young ladies ” 

“ I’m afraid, but I’ll go,” was Kit’s characteristic 
answer. “But how shall I get out without — any 
one seeing me ” 

“Go down the front stairs, and out at the little 
side door : that is out of sight from the barn» 
Keep along the road in the shadow of the trees tilh^ 
you come to the turn by Crossett’s red barn, then " 
go across lots. Quick, now, if you are to do any 
good.” 

Kit was up and dressed in an instant. “What 
shall I say 1 ” she asked. 

“Tell them to get up and have lights burning, and 
to make as if they had company. Tell them — Oh, 
bother ! tell them what you like ; but be quick if you 
are going to do any good.” 

“Wait one minute,” said Kit. For a brief space, 
which did not seem long even to Phin’s impatience, v 
she knelt by her bedside. Then, taking her-^hpe"^ in" ^ 
hand, she crept down stairs, slipped 'out of tn^ little 
side door, leaving it ajar behind her, aijd glided like 
a shadow out at the gate, and up the road • shaded 
with maple-trees of sixty years growth. Phin watched 
the little figure as far as he could see it, and then 
went to the other side of the house, and looked tow- 
ard the barn. All was quiet there ; and he returned 
to his chair, to be tormented by a hundred misgiv- 
ings, and to wish he had let the child alone. He had 
sent her into terrible danger, for he well knew that 
Gale would never hesitate to murder Kit if he caught. 


344 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

her. The hour set, one o’clock, was drawing very 
near. Why could he not have thought of it before } 
Kit would never have time to reach the stone house ; 
and perhaps she could not succeed in waking the 
ladies, even if she did. He wished he had gone 
himself, or let the matter alone. Poor Phin ! a great 
part of his life had been spent in doing things, and 
then wishing he had not done them. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE NET CLOSED. 

. Kit sped swiftly and silently as a mousing-owl 
under the shadow of the great maple-trees, where 
the soft, short grass returned no sound to her tread. 
It was not till she reached a spot out of sight of 
house and barn that she stopped to put on her shoes, 
without which she dared not try to ascend the stony 
path. It was soon done ; and she took her way up 
the hill, stopping more than once to look round, and 
strain her eyes through the darkness. She could not 
resist the conviction that some one or something was 
following her, stopping when she stopped, and moving 
when she moved. Her blood chilled at the thought. 
Could it be Gale, who had seen her, after all ? Or 
was it — what ? 

Kit had heard plenty of wild stories, and had 
abundance of superstitious fears. She had heard 
from her Indian friends, of creatures which roamed 
at night to entrap unwary travellers ; first scaring 
them out of their senses, and then tearing them to 
pieces. She had heard, too, from the school-children, 
about the great snake, which at least once in the 

345 


346 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


year crossed the town of Oldham from Indian Hill 
to the Big Swamp, and back again, — who should say 
on what errand ? She had heard, too, of panthers 
(or “painters,” as the children called them), — wild 
animals, but endued with more than animal cunning 
and malice ; and, like every old New-England town, 
Oldham had plenty of legends of goblin and ghost, 
witch and what not. 

“ But they can’t hurt me unless He lets them, and 
I don’t believe He will,” said Kit sturdily to herself, 
after a longer pause than usual, during which she 
was sure she had heard the breaking of a dry twig 
under some one’s foot. “ I don’t believe Gale saw 
me, and I’m sure nobody about here would hurt me.” 

So saying, she hastened on more rapidly, as if to 
atone for her delay; but it seemed an age to her 
before she reached the turn by her favorite ledge, 
and saw the stone house not far away, and a dim 
light burning in Madam Van Zandt’s window. The 
next room was Amity’s, she knew ; but how to rouse 
them } She stood a second to consider, and then 
took up a handful of gravel, and threw it against the 
window. 

Waked by the noise. Amity started up ; but, before 
she could strike a light, the sound came again, and a 
soft voice called, “ Miss Bogardus ! ” She sprang to 
the window, and, opening it, saw a little dark figure 
below. 

“ O Miss Bogardus, hurry and let me in ! ” said 
Kit in a tone of entreaty, for her courage was fast 
giving way. “Oh, do hurry! I am sure I hear 
them.” 


THE NET CLOSED. 


347 


“What is it, Amity?” asked Ida sleepily from the 
next room. 

“ It is Kit, and she wants to come in,” answered 
Amity ; and again came the agonized entreaty, “ O 
Miss Bogardus, do hurry ! ” 

It seemed an age to Kit, though it was not more 
than a few minutes, before she was admitted to the 
side hall, where were assembled Mrs. Van Zandt, 
Amity, and Ida, and another tall young lady whom 
Kit did not know. 

“Fasten the door, quick!” were Kit’s first words. 
“Fasten all the doors and windows.” 

“Yes, yes, we will fasten them,” said Amity sooth- 
ingly. “ My dear child, what is the matter ? ” 

“Fasten the doors; never mind me. Oh, do be 
quick ! they will be here.” 

“ Who will be here ? ” asked Ida. 

“The robbers. Uncle Phin sent me to tell you. 
They are coming to rob the house to-night. Don’t 
ask me any more questions, but hurry and fasten up 
every thing. They will be here : I heard some one 
coming up the hill. Oh, do .hurry I they will kill 
you.” 

Ida, never very courageous, looked at Amity in 
dismay. The tall young lady, whom Kit did not 
know, stepped into her room, and brought out a neat 
little case, which she began to unlock. 

“There will be two words to that,” said she coolly. 
“ How many are there ? ” 

“ Only two that I know of, but there may be more. 
Uncle Phin sent me to tell you. Oh, why dont 
you hurry and fasten up every thing ? ” said Kit, 


348 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

clasping her hands in an agony of impatience, as the 
girls looked at each other. 

My dear child, I don’t understand you,” said Mrs. 
Van Zandt soothingly. “I almost think you must 
have been dreaming.” 

Kit stood up, and strove to speak calmly ; but, 
before she could answer, Percy broke in, — 

Excuse me, Mrs. Van Zandt, but I think we are 
the dreamers. If the child’s story is true, we have 
not a moment to lose ; if it is false, we shall only 
have lost our labor. Don’t stand staring, girls, but 
collect the valuables, and carry them to some safe 
place. — Aggy, get together Mrs. Van Zandt’s jewels 
and laces. Amity, you and Ida take the spoons and 
silver. Is there any money in the house ? ” 

Only a few dollars.” 

“ So much the better. Come, girls, be quick.” 

** Wouldn’t it be better to dress, and run down to 
Miss Claxton’s ? ” suggested Amity. 

“And so run right into the arms of these men, as 
likely as not,” said Ida. “ Besides, aunt Barbara 
could not do it. No, Amity : Percy is right. Don’t 
waste a moment. — What are you going to do, 
Percy ?” 

“Stand here and keep guard for the present,” 
answered Percy, examining the charges of her re- 
volver, and changing a doubtful-looking cartridge. 

“ Blit you won’t shoot anybody .? ” said Mrs. Van 
Zandt. 

“ Not if I can help it. Dear Mrs. Van Zandt, do 
let Aggy take you up stairs.” 

“How cool you are!” said Ida, pausing a moment. 


THE NET CLOSED. 349 

with her lap full of spoons. “ I wish I were like 
you. I am horribly frightened.’' 

“ So am I,” answered Percy ; “ but, if you had 
lived two years and a half in Arizona, you would 
know that the more scared you are, the cooler you 
need to be.” 

In a very few minutes every thing of value was 
stored in a strong closet built for such purposes, and 
not easy to find unless the searcher knew where to 
look; and the ladies betook themselves to the front 
bedroom over the door, and awaited their unwelcome 
visitors. They had not long to wait. In less than 
half an hour, stealthy steps were heard, and the han- 
dle of the door was carefully tried. To Ida’s terror, 
Percy opened the window and called, “ Who is 
there ? 

‘‘ Let us in,” was the response. 

Not till I know who you are.” 

Look here, young woman, just you let us in 
peaceably, and we won’t hurt you : if we have to let 
ourselves in, perhaps we shall. We mean to have 
what is worth having in this house, and you can’t 
help yourself,” 

“That’s Gale,” whispered Kit. “He’ll kill you 
all, as likely as not, if he gets in. He doesn’t care 
what he does.” 

“ He won’t get in,” answered Percy ; then, speak- 
ing to the men outside, “We have fire-arms, and 
know how to use them. The first man who enters 
this house is a dead man.” 

“ Do come away, Percy : he will shoot you,” 
urged Ida. 


350 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

** No, he won’t ; but I have said my say, so I’ll 
shut the window.” 

“ Hark ! What are they doing now } ” 

“Sawing out the panel of the door,” answered 
Percy. “ Don’t you hear them } I must unfasten this 
door so as to meet them before they can get up the 
stairs. Did you lock all the doors below. Amity } ” 

Amity held up the keys. 

“ Good ! then they can’t do any thing but come up 
stairs. What are they stopping for, I wonder.^ Hark ! 
What is that > ” 

There was a little silence, then the sound of a 
scuffle ; and a shot was heard, followed by a heavy 
groan. Percy ventured to open the window and look 
out. She saw two figures stretched on the ground, 
surrounded by two or three more. 

“ What is it ? ” she called. 

“All right, ma’am,” answered a cheery, manly 
voice from below. “ We got here just in the nick 
of time. Please open the door: there’s no danger 
now.” 

“ Who are you ? ” persisted Percy. But, before she 
could receive an answer, two more figures appeared 
upon the scene, and a voice she well knew called 
out, “ Halloo !. what does this mean ? ” 

“ What are you going to do, Perry ? ” asked Mrs. 
Van Zandt as Percy sprang to the door and unlocked 
it. 

“Don’t be in a hurry, Percy,” chimed in Ida: “it 
may be all a plot to get in.” 

“ A plot, you goose ! Do you think I don’t know 
Abram’s voice ? ” Percy ran down the stairs ; and 


THE NET CLOSED. 


351 


Amity advanced to the head of them in time to see 
her unlock and unchain the front-door, and throw 
herself upon a tall, stalwart figure, with a cry that 
had something decidedly shaky in its sound. 

‘‘There, there, my girl, don’t go into hysterics. 
What’s the matter ? ” 

“No wonder the lady is scared,” said a voice from 
behind, as a stout man in a blue uniform entered the 
hall : “ it was enough to scare any one. But the 
danger is all over now, only we must get this 
wounded man under cover. There is a heavy thun- 
der-gust coming up. If the lady will tell me where 
to find a small mattress, it will be easier for him.” 

“ In the little blue room, Aggy,” said Mrs. Van 
Zandt. 

“With your leave I’ll help her, ma’am,” said the 
stout man, stepping up the staircase with two strides, 
as it seemed. “Ah, yes, this is it. Careful now, men ; 
mind the other fellow. — Perhaps you and your friend 
will bear a hand, sir.” 

In another minute or two a desperately wounded 
man was laid on the wide sofa in the hall, and Kit 
had thrown herself on her knees beside him with a 
cry of anguish. 

“ Uncle Phin, O uncle Phin ! speak to Kitty.” 

“ Kitty,” said Phin, opening his eyes. “ Is Kit safe > 
Then it’s all right.” He sank back with a sigh, and 
closed his eyes. 

“ Oh, do some one go for the doctor ! ” cried Kit, 
wringing her hands. “ Don’t let him die. O uncle 
Phin ! ” 

“Hush, my child. I am a doctor, and I will see 


352 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


to him,” said the second new-comer, advancing to the 
sofa. “ Ladies, please step out of the way. Police- 
man, I shall need your help. Take the child away, 
Ida. — Yes, my dear, you shall see him again di- 
rectly.” 

‘‘And now what is all this about } ” asked Abram 
van Alstyne, depositing his wife on the sofa. “ Frank 
and I walked over from the railroad, and the first we 
knew found ourselves in the midst of a battle.” 

Ida told the story as far as she knew it. “ As for 
the rest, you must ask our champions themselves,” 
she concluded. “ They may have come out of a 
cloud, for aught I know. I am sorry poor Mallory 
was the one to be shot, for it was he who sent us 
warning.” 

“ So much the better for him,” remarked the tall 
policeman. “ But it was none of us who shot him : 
it was that fellow Gale, or Burchard — he has a dozen 
names or more. We have been watching for him for 
a week. His wife put us on his track at last. We 
came up just as they started out, and followed them 
every step of the way. — But what brought you up 
here, sis .^” 

“ Uncle Phin sent me,” sobbed Kit. “ He told me 
to come up and tell the ladies. Oh, do you think he 
will die .? ” 

“ I don't know, child. He is badly hurt, I am 
afraid ; but we shall hear what the doctor says. Here 
he comes now. — Well, doctor } ” 

“It is a desperate case,” said Dr. Van Alstyne. 
“ He may last till morning, or even a little longer if 
kept perfectly quiet ; but it would be instant death 


THE NET CLOSED. 


353 


to move him. He knows his condition, and is very 
anxious to see Mrs. Van Zandt and his daughter.” 

“ Potter, you might go down for the woman,” said 
the tall policeman. Get out the horse, and bring 
her up.” 

‘‘Well, my poor man, this is very sad,” said Mrs. 
Van Zandt, seating herself beside the wounded man. 
“Dr. Van Alstyne says you wish to speak to me.” 

“You are Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt, who adopted 
Martha Kathleen Joyce ? ” said Phin. 

“ Yes, my friend.” 

“She was my wife,” said Phin, speaking slowly 
but quite clearly. “ She was my cousin’s widow, — 
David Selkirk’s widow. He died, and left her and 
her child to my care ; for I was pretty steady then, 
and was helping him in his business. Afterward I 
married her. There was quite a good deal of money 
coming to her and the child, but I fooled it away 
gambling and horse-trotting. Gale got most of it. 
Then my wife went crazy ; and I was afraid a fuss 
would be made about the money, so I passed off Kit 
as an adopted child. Her mother never knew her 
till just at last. Then she made me promise to put 
the child into your hands ; and I meant to do it, but 
I kept putting it off : I hated to part with her. And 
there was the money.” 

“ I should not have troubled you about that,” said 
Mrs. Van Zandt. “ O my poor little Kathleen ! 
To think of her dying so near me ! ” 

“There was more about it than that,” said Phin. 
He paused a little, and then added, “The farm is 
Kit’s by rights. Grandfather left it to David. I 


354 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

found the first will at Mr. Green’s in Oldbury, and 
proved it. Afterward I found the second in grand- 
father’s desk. It is there now. Symantha don’t 
know any thing about it. You’ll be kind to Syman- 
tha, won’t you.^” said Phin, turning his eyes wist- 
fully on the old lady. “ She is a good girl, and she 
was good to Matey.” 

Indeed I will ! ” answered Mrs. Van Zandt, ** as 
kind as if she were my own daughter. Oh, if you 
had only come to me at once ! ” 

Well, I meant to,” said Phin feebly ; “ but, you 
see, I kept putting it off. I felt so ashamed. David 
left them ten thousand dollars, and I just fooled it 
away. I’ve been a fool all my life ; but I was good 
to my wife, wasn’t I, Kit } ” 

“Yes, indeed!” sobbed Kit, “always.” 

“He must not say another word if he is to live 
to see his daughter,” said Dr.Van Alstyne in a low 
tone. “ He is sinking fast.” 

“Just one thing more,” said Phin. “I want to 
see Gale.” 

The prisoner was brought forward strongly guarded. 
He gazed at the dying man without a sign of emo- 
tion in his hard, cruel face. 

“ Gale, do you think I sold you } ” 

“I know it,” answered Gale. 

“You are mistaken,” said Phin eagerly. “I did 
send Kit up to warn the ladies ; but I never betrayed 
you, did I, Cap ” 

“No,” answered the policeman, “you had nothing 
to do with it. Some one else put us on the track at 
last.” 


THE NET CLOSED. 


355 


** Who ? ” asked Gale, changing color for the first 
time. 

“ Never mind, my man : you’ll hear all about it in 
time.” 

“Not — not Sally?” Then, as it seemed reading 
an assent in the man’s face, he set his teeth hard. 

“Phin, I’m sorry,” said he, suddenly turning to 
the dying man. “You’ve saved my life, and I’ve 
taken yours ; but I was mistaken. I’m sorry, that’s 
all I can say. — There, take me out of this.” 

Phin was silent for a little, and seemed to fall into 
a doze, from which he waked with a start. 

“Where am I? Oh, I know. It’s most over, I 
guess. Kit, can’t you sing that hymn you sung for 
aunt Martha? Seems to me I should like to hear 
it.” 

Kit tried hard to sing, — 

“Jesus, lover of my soul,” 

but the effort was too great. Ida took it up ; the two 
gentlemen joined her, and they sang it all through. 
Phin listened quietly. 

“ My mother used to sing that,” said he. “ She 
believed in Him. She taught me to say my prayers, 
too ; but I can’t remember them now, it is so long 
ago. Kit, what was that verse you said at the Bible 
class that night I went with you ? Say it for me.” 

“'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all 
sin,’ ” repeated Kit. “ O uncle Phin, do believe in 
Him ! He will save you, I am sure He will. — Won’t 
He ? ” she asked, appealing to Mrs. Van Zandt. 

“Yes, indeed He will, if you look to Him,” an- 


356 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

swered the old lady. “ It is never too late to turn to 
Him in this world. — O Frank! pray with him.” 

All knelt, while, in a few plain, earnest words, 
Frank Van Alstyne commended the dying man to 
the Fountain of all mercy. Phin evidently followed, 
and understood the words. 

“Thank you,” said he faintly. “I guess ma was 
right, after all. I am a poor wretch, but He can save 
me if He is what you say. — There, don’t cry. Kit. 
Be a good girl, and mind Mrs. Van Zandt. — Lord, 
have mercy on me I ” 

These were his last words. He lay in a sort of 
slumber, starting now and then, till Symantha came 
in. He evidently knew her; for he pressed her hand, 
and tried to put it into Mrs. Van Zandt’s. The old 
lady understood the movement, and bent over him. 

“ Have no fear, Mr. Mallory : your daughter shall 
have every care and help.” 

Phin smiled, sighed once, and all was over. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE END. 

Of course, by nine o’clock the whole town of Old- 
ham was ringing with the news of the robbery and 
the capture. Aunt Betsy burst in upon Mr. West- 
on’s family at the breakfast-table. But, before she 
had time to tell her tale. Miss Delia Claxton popped 
in at the other door. 

Oh, have you heard } Isn’t it dreadful ! And 
that poor man to be taken so ! ” 

“ It serves him right,” said Aunt Betsy grimly. 
“ I only hope folks will have enough of those Mal- 
lorys,” with a fell glance at Miss Armstrong. “ I 
always said it was a shame to let that young one go 
to school with decent folks’ children.” 

“But what is the matter.^” asked Mrs. Weston. 
“ What has happened ?” 

“Why, a gang of robbers, with Phin Mallory at 
their head, have robbed Mrs. Van Zandt’s house, and 
would have murdered every one in it only the police 
came and caught them,” said Aunt Betsy. “And 
that Kit showed them the way, and told them where 
all the jewels were, and all. Only last night she was 

. 357 


358 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

at my house riding on the wagon-box with Abner 
Bassett, just as bold as brass. I hope he feels proud 
of his company, that’s all.” 

“ You are very much mistaken. Aunt Betsy,” said 
Miss Delia: ''it was Kit who gave them warning. 
Phin sent her on purpose.” 

'‘Yes, that’s likely. I should like to know how 
you know so much better than any one,” snapped 
Aunt Betsy. 

“Because I had the news from headquarters,” 
answered Miss Delia. “ Mrs. Van Zandt sent Aggy 
down for me by daylight this morning ; and, when I 
was helping to lay poor Phin out, Aggy told me the 
whole story ; ” which story Miss Delia repeated with 
great precision. 

“ So Phin is dead,” said Mrs. Weston. “ Poor fel- 
low ! ” 

“ Yes, he is dead ; but I can’t help hoping he had 
grace to repent at last, from what they told me. 
The other robber was — who do you think } — Harry 
Burchard. Yes, that very little curly-haired boy 
that I dressed in the first trousers he ever had on. 
It seems his wife has been living in Oldbury, pre- 
tending to be a great lady from New York; and 
he has been visiting her off and on, calling himself 
Pyncheon, and disguised like an old gentleman. She 
took that Whitman cottage, and they say it was she 
who betrayed him, to try to get off herself; but 
she didn’t, for the house was just full of stolen 
goods.” Miss Delia stopped for want of breath. 

“ Selina,” said Miss Armstrong, “ would you mind 
going up to my room to shut my window } I left it 


THE END. 359 

open, and my papers will be blowing about the 
carpet.” 

Selina looks pale,” observed Miss Delia as Selina 
disappeared. 

“She has not been well for a day or two,” an- 
swered Miss Armstrong. “ I think she has worked 
too hard for her strength. So it was Kitty who 
carried the warning } ” 

“Yes. It seems poor Phin’s heart misgave him at 
the last ; so he put Kit out at the front-door, and 
the poor child ran all the way over the hill, and got 
there just in time.” 

“ There ! I knew she had a hand in it somehow,” 
said Aunt Betsy triumphantly. “Well, give me 
folks that one knows something about. What could 
you expect from a poorhouse young one like that ? ” 

“But that she should risk her life to save her 
friends,” said Miss Armstrong, finishing the sentence. 

“ And as to knowing about people, I am sure we 
know all about Harry Burchard,” said Miss Delia. 
“ His grandfather was minister of Rivermouth ; and 
his father was old Mr. Burchard of Pentaquam, as 
good a man as . ever lived. Such sacrifices as they 
made to send that boy to school and college ! ” 

“They used to indulge him awfully, though,” re- 
turned Aunt Betsy. “ His mother used to let him 
put sugar in his bread and milk. I have seen him 
do it.” 

“And as to Kit’s family, it turns out to be as good 
as anybody’s,” continued Miss Delia. “Her father 
was Phin’s own cousin, David Selkirk, — you remem- 
ber him, Abby, — and her mother was a Miss Joyce, 


360 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

daughter of an excellent Irish minister who emigrated 
to this country. His wife died of cholera on the 
ship, and the poor man only lived a few months after 
her. Mrs. Van Zandt adopted the little girl, and 
brought her up. But when she was eighteen she 
got acquainted with David : so marry him she would, 
and did, and went out West with him ; and Mrs. Van 
Zandt never saw her afterward.” 

“Yes, that’s the way,” said Aunt Betsy. “Adopt- 
ing children is flying in the face of Providence, any- 
way.” 

“Mrs. Van Zandt told me she was struck with 
Kit’s resemblance to this poor thing the first time 
she saw her,” continued Miss Delia. “ She is going 
to keep the child for her own, only Kit stays with 
Symantha for the present.” 

“ How did Symantha take it all ? ” asked Mrs. 
Weston. 

“ Very hard, poor thing. She closed her father’s 
eyes, and kissed him ; but she never shed a tear, and 
her face was like ashes. Presently she says to Mrs. 
Van Zandt, ‘ Did pa tell you about the child and the 
money } ’ And Mrs. Van Zandt said yes, but not to 
mind about the money : she had plenty. And then 
Symantha said, ‘ I should like to keep Kit with me 
for a few days.’ And Mrs. Van Zandt said Kit should 
stay as long as she liked ; and she kissed Symantha, 
and thanked her for all that she had done. And they 
got her to crying at last. Then she went home ; and 
I went with her, and. got her to lie down and take some 
tea. Celia is up there now, helping Ma Bassett put 
the house in order.” 


THE END. 361 

should think she’d be afraid,” said Aunt 

Betsy. 

“ Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of : an officer or 
policeman is staying there. They searched the 
house and barns, but they didn’t find a thing but 
what belonged there ; and nobody thinks Symantha 
was any way mixed up in it. Of course she may 
have had her suspicions ; but nobody could expect her 
to betray her own father, even if she had known for 
certain.” 

“ Poor thing ! and poor Phin ! ” said Mrs. Weston. 
“ I hope he had grace to repent. 

‘ Between the saddle and the ground, 

If mercy’s sought, mercy’s found.’ ” 

“Maybe so, but I don’t believe in death-bed re- 
pentances,” said Aunt Betsy. “I never knew one 
to come to any thing.” 

“ I never knew many people after their death-beds, 
so I can’t judge,” said Mrs. Weston dryly. “I guess 
ril send Ezra up to Mallory’s with a loaf of bread 
and the chicken-pie I made yesterday. I can get 
something else ready for Sunday, and it will save 
them trouble in cooking.” 

Selina went up to Miss Armstrong’s room, and 
closed the window. Then she retreated to her own, 
and sat down, not so much to think as to stare aghast 
at the gulf which had opened at her feet, and into 
which she had been so near falling. For she had 
been very near it : only last night, sitting in that very 
chair, she had made up her mind that she would write 
to Mrs. Orme, and arrange to return to New York 


362 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

with her. She would have done so then and there, 
but that, on opening her desk, she found she had 
used all her paper. Suppose she had done so. Sup- 
pose the exposure had been delayed a few days, long 
enough for her to leave her home, and meet Mrs. 
Orme at Elmfield, as that person had proposed. The 
thought turned her cold and sick. It never occurred 
to her to doubt the truth of the story. On the con- 
trary, a hundred things went to confirm it. She had 
had more than one fit of cold misgiving as to the 
character of her friend, since her return home ; and 
her talk with Milly had shaken' her more than she 
had been willing to own to herself at the time. But 
then, the net had been such a very tempting one, and 
it had been so skilfully laid in the sight of the silly 
little field-bird, discontented with its nest, and long- 
ing for a wider flight. And now it would all come 
out, and every one would know. Kit would tell how 
she was talking with that murderer. What should 
she do ? Where could she hide ? She rose to her 
feet with some wild idea of running away, and hiding 
from the disgrace; but her limbs trembled so, she 
could not stand, and she dropped down again. 

She was sitting with her head hidden on her folded 
arms, conscious of nothing but a crushing load of 
shame and misery, and that vague, unreasoning wish 
to die which so often seizes on young people in the 
presence of their first overmastering trouble, when a 
gentle hand was laid on her arm, and a gentle voice 
said, — 

daughter.’* 

‘'O mother, don’t!” moaned Selina. ‘‘Oh, send 


THE END. 363 

me away somewhere, where I shall not be a disgrace 
to you. Oh, I wish you had never seen me.” 

“ Hush, my dear, hush. Don’t say such things,” 
said Mrs. Weston gently. ‘‘Why should I send you 
away.? Suppose you have been foolish, and made 
a mistake: what better place than mother’s house 
could you find .? ” 

“ I have been more than foolish,” said Selina, rais- 
ing her head. “You don’t know half how wicked 
and ungrateful I have been. Only last night — 
Oh ! I can’t tell you. Oh, what shall I do .? ” 

“ Don’t try to say any thing,’' said Mrs. Weston. 
“ Drink this coffee, and lie down ; and by and by you 
shall tell me the whole story. Don’t be afraid, dear : 
mother will always stand by her girl.” 

Selina was thankful for the permission to stay out 
of the reach of prying eyes and questioning tongues. 
Mrs. Weston undressed her, and bathed her hot 
head. 

“ God help you, my child ! ” said she, kissing her. 
“Try to compose yourself, and to look to your 
heavenly Father. Trust Him, my dear. Whatever 
happens, your father and mother will not forsake you ; 
and His love is stronger than theirs.” 

“ How good, how lovely, she is ! ” thought Selina, 
with a feeling of absolute wonder. “She knows I 
am mixed up in this horrible, disgraceful business, 
and yet she never gives me a word of reproach or 
unkindness. And I was ready to leave her for that — 
How could I be such a fool .? But I have always 
been a fool. How shamefully I have treated Miss 
Armstrong, and how kind she was this morning ! I 


364 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

do believe I should have dropped in another min- 
ute.” 

It was a very long day that Selina spent in her 
room, but it was the most profitable of her whole life. 
The flinty rock of her heart, which refused to be 
softened by the rain, was crushed and powdered by 
the hammer. The trodden path was hard ; but the 
ploughshare could turn it, and make it fine for the 
seed. Her eyes were opened to see herself, in some 
degree, as she was. She could hardly have endured 
the sight, but that the same One who showed her sin 
showed also her Saviour. 

That night Selina opened her heart to her mother 
as she had never done before, and received her full 
and free forgiveness. 

You have had a hard lesson, my child; but we 
will not grudge it,” said Mrs. Weston. It will be 
worth all it costs if it leads you home to your 
Father’s house.” 

'' I hope it has,” said Selina. Do you think it is 
wrong for me to hope that He has forgiven me } ” 

“ No, my dear. Why should it be wrong for you 
to take Him at His word } ” 

“ Well, you know, Mr. Martin used to say he had 
no faith in sudden conversions, and that the religious 
life must be a gradual growth.” 

How many conversions can Mr. Martin find re- 
corded in the New Testament that were not sud- 
den } ” asked Mrs. Weston. “ If I am lost on the 
mountain in a fog, and the sun comes out and shows 
me that I am lost, it may take me a long time to get 
home, but it will not take me a minute to turn round 


THE END. 


365 


and set off in the right direction. Thank Heaven, 
you have turned round ! It makes me shudder to 
think of the horrible danger you have escaped.” 

But Selina’s trials were not all over, by any means. 
It was known in Oldbury that she had been on very 
intimate terms with Mrs. Orme, as she called herself ; 
and, on examination, Kit was obliged to reveal the 
fact that she had seen Selina talking with the pris- 
oner. What was known in Oldbury was known in 
Oldham, and Selina knew that the whole town was 
talking about her. Moreover, she was called as a 
witness on the trial ; and, though her testimony 
amounted to nothing, except to show how she had 
herself been victimized, it was a terrible ordeal, and 
when at last she was dismissed, she felt as if she 
could never hold up her head again. As she dropped 
into a seat beside her mother, a little hand sought 
hers, and a soft voice whispered, — 

O Selina ! don’t be angry with me. I didn’t 
mean to tell, but they would make me.” 

You couldn’t help it,” returned Selina, pressing 
Kit’s hand. 

“You see, I knew him the minute I saw him,” 
continued Kit. “You don’t know how it made me 
feel to see him talking to you, — just as it did to see 
the copperhead twisted round Eddy’s ankle. I was 
scared to death, for I thought he knew me ; but I was 
determined to warn you.” 

“ You were real good, and I have always treated 
you so badly too,” said Selina. 

“ Never mind,” returned Kit. “ It has all come 
right at last, only for poor uncle Phin ; and I can’t 


366 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 


help hoping it is right for him too. Uncle Phin 
wasn’t naturally so bad, only he never had any mind 
of his own. He was always so easy to lead away. 
But somehow these people who are so easy to lead 
wrong don’t seem to be so easy to lead right.” 

“ Are you really going to live with Mrs. Van 
Zandt in New York } ” asked Selina as they walked 
away from the court-room together. 

“ I am not going to live with her at first,” an- 
swered Kit. She says her house is too dull for a 
little girl : so I am to stay with Miss Ida’s mother, 
and take lessons of her this winter.” 

“You will like that,” observed Selina, “you are so 
fond of Miss Ida.” 

“Yes, it would be lovely only for leaving Syman- 
tha. But she says aunt Martha — mother, I mean: 
it seems so queer that aunt Martha should be my 
mother — Symantha says mother made uncle Phin 
promise to give me to Mrs. Van Zandt, before she 
died, and that is just what she should have chosen 
for me. 

“ And what is Symantha going to do } ” 

“ Oh, Miss Armstrong has got her a place as nurse 
in some institution in New York where they take 
weak-minded people. It seems like a very hard place, 
but Symantha likes the idea ; and she is just the one 
for the work, she had so much exj^erience taking care 
of mother.” 

“ And when are you going } ” 

“ As soon as school closes. Selina, do you re- 
member that first day Miss Armstrong taught, when 
I could not say the Lord’s Prayer } ” 


THE END. 


367 


** Yes, indeed ; and how I behaved ! ” 

** That was about the best day of my life,” contin- 
ued Kit thoughtfully. “I shall never forget how 
different the world looked to me after Miss Arm- 
strong told me I had a Father in heaven who loved 
me. 

‘‘ And you believed it the very minute you heard 
it ? ” said Selina, “ and you loved Him ? ” 

'‘Why, yes, I couldn’t help it,” answered Kit 
simply. 

"And I had been taught about Him all my life ; 
and yet, if any one had made me believe there was 
no God, I should have been rather glad,” said Se- 
lina. "Your heart was the good ground, Kit; but 
mine was so hard, it is a wonder that any thing good 
could ever grow in it.’* 

There is little more to add to our story. When 
the school closed. Miss Armstrong proposed that 
Selina should accompany her on a visit to her sister 
in Colorado. It was a long journey, she said ; she 
should be glad of a companion, and her sister and 
niece would make Selina more than welcome. Mr. 
and Mrs. Weston gladly consented, willing to re- 
move the girl for a time from the unavoidable an- 
noyances which surrounded her in Oldham. But 
we all know the dangers which beset young ladies 
who go visiting in new States. Selina found employ- 
ment as a teacher in one of the schools which Chris- 
tian enterprise has set up. She returned home in 
a year, but not to stay. A gentleman who owns a 
great sheep-farm in those parts came on in the sum- 
mer, and, overruling all objections on the score of 


368 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

Selina's youth, carried her off in triumph. Aunt 
Betsy was present at the wedding, of course, and 
remarked that she had always known the Westons 
would never have any comfort out of that girl. Such 
sights as they had spent on her ! and now, just as she 
was old enough to be good for something, off she 
went. Aunt Betsy hoped he was a respectable man ; 
but there were queer folks out there, and she shouldn’t 
wonder a bit if something was to happen. It is not 
supposed that Aunt Betsy will grow more amiable as 
she grows older. 

Patience Fletcher recovered after a long illness; 
but she was never so well as before, and she was 
obliged perforce to give up a great deal of the work 
into Faith’s hands. Under these circumstances Pa- 
tience learned gradually to believe that the balance 
of the universe was not much disturbed though the 
teacup handles were turned east instead of west, and 
even to be resigned when the cat put her kittens in 
the second-best clothes-basket, and a fly got into the 
front-room. In a word, the thorns which had so 
long choked the good seed, being rooted up, she 
found there was room not only for the wheat which 
is the staff of life, but for the flowers which beautify 
it. Faith grew up a capital housewife, and Patience 
confessed that Faithie made the house pleasanter 
than ever she had done. 

Poor Cordelia Richmond had the comfort of open- 
ing her heart before her death. Mr. Brace conveyed 
an inkling of the case to Dr. Madison, who at once 
called upon Mrs. Richmond with his sister, who 
was a very great lady in that world which Mrs. 


THE END. 


3^9 


Richmond beheld from afar with envious eyes. She 
could not for very shame refuse to let the Doctor see 
Cordelia when Milly told her, before him, that Cor- 
delia had asked for him. The Doctor was a man of 
experience. He wasted no time in idle words, but 
went at once to the root of the matter ; and before 
he left he had the comfort of laying the poor trem- 
bling child at her Lord’s feet. Even Mrs. Richmond 
could not be angry when she saw how peaceful and 
happy Cordelia was after the interview. 

Three days after, the poor child passed away in 
great peace and happiness. The next winter Mrs. 
Richmond married a very rich man with a great 
house, for which he wanted a mistress, and forthwith 
plunged into “society.” Her new interest broke the 
force of her disappointment in Milly, who has turned 
out “very eccentric; just like her poor father, you 
know,” Mrs. Richmond says. “But she is a good 
child, after all ; and I let her take her own way.” 
That way leads Milly to a great many strange places, 
to an Italian mission school, and a sewing-school ; 
and not seldom to Mrs. Van Zandt, whose almoner 
she is among her poor pupils, — a circumstance which 
almost consoles her mother for her oddity. 

Kit is staying with Ida Van Zandt at Rockdale, 
studying, and working very hard at her music. She 
spends most of her Sundays with Mrs. Van Zandt, 
who finds great delight in her society, and promises 
to take her to see Miss Armstrong next summer. 

For Miss Armstrong is settled in Oldham for 
good. She has actually married Mr. Brace, and set- 
tled down in the Oldham parsonage, which has been 


370 OLDHAM; OR, BESIDE ALL WATERS. 

beautified to such an extent that it hardly knows 
itself. More than that, the parish has built a fine, 
convenient Sunday-school room, which it is Mr. Ket- 
tle’s pride and delight to keep in the best of order ; 
remarking, as he does nearly every Sunday, that he 
don’t grudge the work so long as it keeps the wear 
and tear of the school out of his church. For Mr. 
Kettle looks upon the church and the minister, not 
to mention the minister’s wife, cow, horse, and pig, as 
his own private property, and the best in their several 
ways to be found in the United States, and pays no 
heed to the remark of Aunt Betsy (also repeated 
every Sunday), that Mr. Brace may be all very well, 
but he will never fill Dr. Munson’s pulpit. 

We must now take our leave of Oldham and its 
people. Perhaps some time or other we may visit 
there again. I hope the moral of my story is clear 
enough to tell itself. To all of us comes the sower 
bearing precious seed. Shall we let it lie by the 
wayside, the prey of every wandering bird shall we 
let the thorns grow up, and choke it, so that no fruit 
shall be brought to perfection } or shall we receive 
it into an honest and good heart, that it may bring 
forth fruit unto everlasting life ? 


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AFLOAT AND ASHORE with Sir Walter Raleigh. 

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ANNA CAVA YE ; or, The Ugly Princess. By Sarah 

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AUSTIN (Stella). Kenneth’s Children. 12mo, cloth. . 125 

Great Grandmother’s Shoes. 12mo, cloth 1 25 

Our Next-Door Neighbor. 12mo, cloth 1 25 

Pat. A Story for Boys and Girls. 12mo, cloth 1 25 

Ben Cramer : Working Jeweler. 12mo, cloth 125 

Uncle Philip. 12mo, cloth 1 25 

For Old Sake’s Sake. 12mo, cloth 1 00 

Rags and Tatters. 12mo, cloth 1 00 

Not a Bit like Mother. 16mo 1 00 

Stumps. 16mo, cloth 1 00 

Somebody. 16mo, cloth 1 00 

CASTLE COMFORT. A Story for Children. By Mrs. 

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CLIFFORD’S TRIAL; or, The Conquest of Patience. 

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DOMESTIC HEROINE, A. A Story for Girls. By 

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DOROTHY. A Tale. By T. M. Browne, author of “Not 

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EDITH LEIGH’S PRAYER-BOOK. By K. M. 

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FRIAR HILDEBRAND’S CROSS; or. The Monk 

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GETTING TO BE WOMEN. By George Klingle. 

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GOLD AND GLORY ; or. Wild Ways of Other Days. 

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GRACE DARLING ; the Heroine of the Fame Isles. 

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BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 


GUERNSEY ("Lucy Helen). Milly; or, The Hidden 

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Lady Betty’s Governess ; or, The Corbet Chronicles. 12mo, 1 25 

Lady Rosamond’s Book. Being a second part of the Stan- 

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The Chevalier’s Daughter. Being a third part of the Stan- 

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The Foster Sisters ; or, Lucy Corbet’s Chronicle. 12mo . . 1 50 

Loveday’s History. An Historical Story. 12mo .... 1 50 

Winifred ; or. After Many Days. 12rao 1 25 

Christmas at Cedar Hill. A Holiday Story-Book. lOrao . 1 00 

The Child’s Treasure of Stories. lOmo 90 

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LOVING SISTER, A. A Story for Big Girls. By 

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“NOT MY WAY ; “ or, Good out of Evil. A Story. 

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Cousin Minnie ; or. The Feast of Life. 12mo 1 

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STORIES FOR CHRISTMAS TIME. By George 

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STORIES FROM ENGLISH HISTORY. By 

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STORIES ON THE CHURCH CATECHISM. 

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THEO. GRAY’S FIRST YEARS OUT OP 

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VAIN AMBITION ; or. Only a Girl. By Emma Daven- 
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WALTER ALISON : his Friends and Foes. By M. L. 

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WHAT’S IN A NAME? By Sarah Doudney. 12mo . 1 
YEAR AT BRIERCLIPPE, A. By F. McCready 
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00 

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Thomas Whittaker, 2 and 3 Bible House, Hew York. 


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